ebook in black and white without photos

White Van Acting Suspiciously
Travels in Eastern Europe with
Suzanne Middleton
Photography
John Robilliard
Publisher Suzanne Middleton
www.travelmagpie.com
Copyright © Suzanne Middleton 2011
ISBN 978-0-473-18290-8
Contents
Map of the Journey .................................................................................................................... 4
Chapter 1 France, Belgium, Netherlands ................................................................................... 5
Chapter 2 Germany .................................................................................................................. 14
Chapter 3 Germany, Czech Republic....................................................................................... 25
Chapter 4 Czech Republic, Germany....................................................................................... 40
Chapter 5 Poland, Slovakia, Hungary ...................................................................................... 48
Chapter 6 Romania .................................................................................................................. 71
Chapter 7 Bulgaria, Turkey...................................................................................................... 96
Chapter 8 Turkey ................................................................................................................... 121
Chapter 9 Greece.................................................................................................................... 145
Chapter 10 Italy, Croatia, Bosnia-Hercegovina, Slovenia ..................................................... 170
Chapter 11 Italy, Austria, Switzerland, France ...................................................................... 194
Epilogue ................................................................................................................................. 214
Bibliography .......................................................................................................................... 215
Thanks .................................................................................................................................... 217
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Map of the Journey
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Chapter 1 France, Belgium, Netherlands
31 July – 16 August 2008
Known Unto God
In Dover we ceremoniously record the van‟s mileage - 155,576 - before driving into
the hold of the Norfolk Line ferry in a state of exhilaration. A glorious year of freedom
stretches ahead of us, loosely defined and unpredictable.
We‟re off to Eastern Europe, Turkey and Greece in an old builder‟s van with a
mattress, gas cooker and toilet in the back, knowing that the trip will change us forever.
Unable to resist a moment of cliché we go up on deck and take pictures of the receding white
cliffs.
An encounter with a Romanian Big Issue seller in Dover the day before has added to
our elation. He was blown away to hear that we were driving to his homeland and wished us
an emotional farewell.
With dozens of travel guides and road atlases stashed away, a compass on the
windscreen, some jars of curry paste and New Zealand Marmite in the pantry, if we‟ve
forgotten anything it‟s too late now. Our lack of suitcases, bookings and satellite navigation
is liberating.
In Dunkirk we park for the night on the promenade at Malo-les-Bains. Low tide has
exposed wide sand flats where a rugby team is training. It rains off and on from a black sky
as the locals promenade and cycle past.
All our planning and lists are history. We have no commitments. We‟re on fire.
By the next morning we‟re unwinding. After a leisurely breakfast we head south east
into Belgium towards Ypres, through summer fields of wheat, barley, potatoes, maize and
Brussels sprouts. We travel past white cattle, mares and foals, along avenues of oaks and
maples. It‟s a flat, green and orderly landscape of shuttered farmhouses and canals.
We have a sense of trepidation about Ypres, a medieval town which was completely
destroyed in WW1, but we discover that it‟s been lovingly rebuilt, with a leafy car park in the
centre of town where we can stay. The wide city ramparts incorporate sections of moat with
lawns, beautiful trees, and gardens.
First of all we visit a tiny Commonwealth War Graves Commission cemetery which
has the graves of fourteen Kiwi soldiers, including eleven from the Maori Battalion. The
headstones of unnamed soldiers have the words “A Soldier of the Great War ... Known Unto
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God”. A father with a Manchester accent explains the meaning of this to his son, then points
to one of the graves and says, “He‟s a Maori”.
The Menin Gate is a huge Roman style triumphal arch erected by the Brits on the site
of the town‟s medieval east gate, on the road where thousands of soldiers marched on their
way to the front, as a memorial to honour fifty five thousand British and Commonwealth
soldiers whose bodies were never found. Their names are all there, so many Canadians and
Australians, and some Indians. There is only one New Zealand name, in with the British. At
8pm there‟s a crowd of a few hundred to hear five buglers play “The Last Post”, a nightly
ritual since 1928, suspended only during the German occupation in WW2. The solemnity
and sadness of the occasion are a fitting start to our journey. We will be constantly reminded
of grim historical events in the months ahead.
Next day we drive into the country and visit Tyne Cot cemetery. Tyne Cot was the
name that homesick Northumbrian soldiers gave to a little farm building on the site. The
cemetery is enclosed by walls of flint and contains 12,000 graves, including those of 520
named and 1,166 unnamed New Zealand soldiers. Like all the Commonwealth War Graves
Commission cemeteries, it has immaculate headstones, and abundant flowers and shrubs.
Dwarf junipers mark the end of each row of graves, with roses, daisies, alliums, heather and
dahlias in front of the headstones. A huge curved wall is inscribed with the names of soldiers
whose bodies were never found. We‟re intrigued by the names of some of the regiments:
London Cyclists, London Artists.
Inside the new visitors‟ centre, the floor to ceiling windows look out over Ayrshire
cows knee deep in grass, and further away, a field of maize, and yew, willow and poplar
trees. An interminable soundtrack accompanies our visit. A young English woman‟s voice
recites a list of soldiers‟ names as each one‟s photograph flashes up on a small screen. As
well as a display of twisted and rusted metal shell cases, cans, shovels and water bottles, there
are soldiers‟ personal things such as photos, letters, medals, and a pay book; also chilling
official letters informing the family of the death of a soldier. It‟s a particularly heartrending
reminder of the loss of each single life.
An even grimmer place is the Langemark cemetery where 44,000 German soldiers
were buried, 25,000 in a common grave, and many unknown. Oak trees overshadow the
graves and the only light point is a beautiful life size sculpture in bronze by Emil Krieger, of
four mourning soldiers. Some school pupils from Horley in Surrey have placed a wreath with
a quotation from Einstein: “I know not with what weapons WW3 will be fought. WW4 will be
fought with sticks and stones”.
At every crossroads there are road signs pointing to Commonwealth War Graves
Commission cemeteries. If that isn‟t enough of a reminder to the local farmers, the two
hundred tons of WW1 ammunition (twenty tons of it filled with chemicals) thrown up by
ploughs and other implements each year surely is. They leave it by the roadside to be
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collected by bomb disposal experts. Apparently avid private collectors are occasionally
killed trying to dismantle bombs illegally. We visit memorials to New Zealand soldiers at
Gravenstafel and Messines, remembering our visit to the one in Longueval in France two
years earlier when we bandicooted potatoes from a farmer‟s field with our army surplus
shovel.
It‟s been a melancholy couple of days but it feels right to come here and pay our
respects. Flanders these days is a thriving and peaceful place. The local Oud Bruin beer goes
down a treat at the end of long hot days, and the bread and tomatoes are out of this world. I
luxuriate in the old cotton duvet cover and pillowslips we brought from home, and John is
thrilled with the little shortwave radio. I‟m reading “Great Expectations”, and, best of all,
we‟re completely anonymous.
We head to the coast, just a few miles from the border with the Netherlands, and
spend a peaceful night in Knokke Heist, a popular seaside town full of well dressed and
orderly folk. Beach huts, kites, buckets and spades, and all the paraphernalia of the European
beach experience are laid out along the shore. An array of pedal powered contraptions is
available for hire and people pedal around with whole families on board. We take advantage
of the densely packed apartment blocks on the sea front, pull out the laptop and easily get
online.
The seven weeks we spent in the van in Italy and France two years ago were a great
rehearsal for this trip in every way and John has easily slotted back into driving on the right
hand side of the road. French drivers are impeccable: attentive to the rules and hugely
courteous, while the Italians take a more edgy and intuitive approach. But, the driving habits
of different countries aside, there‟s always an extra level of complexity involved in driving a
UK vehicle over here as we‟re at a distinct disadvantage with the steering wheel on the right.
John has to remember to keep his right shoulder to the kerb when setting out on an empty
road, a risky moment when it‟s easy to revert to old habits. And I have to look out the
passenger‟s window whenever we overtake or change lanes. Long days of driving can be
exhausting.
Gaasperplaas
Our next night is at Zoutelande across the water in the Netherlands where the beach is
vast at low tide and there are stone defences to deflect the waves. Way off to the west is the
port of Zeebrugge with massive cranes and wind turbines. We pass a Dow chemical factory,
then plunge into a long undersea tunnel to enter the Delta.
The Rhine Delta consists of islands and peninsulas that make up the province of
Zeeland. It was a lonely and isolated place until tunnels and bridges were constructed there.
High sand dunes keep the North Sea at bay and we park in a sheltered car park in the sun.
The local beach goers have popped their children and dogs into carriers on their bikes and
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ridden home. John cooks up a curry in the back and I open the laptop with a glass of wine in
the front seat. We tune in to the BBC World Service. There are a few other camper vans:
German, Dutch and French. Next morning we have a cold wash and shampoo in the hand
basin in the public toilet. Luxury.
As we set out towards the storm surge barrier which was constructed to prevent
floods, and the artificial island Neeltje Jans, people are out biking past fields bordered with
wide areas of wildflowers and sunflowers. We stop for coffee with toast and Marmite and
watch a family training some border collies to herd sheep. Then we drive onto the
breakwater which is two miles long, with Neeltje Jans in the middle. It‟s a theme park with a
fantastic museum explaining the history of the area, a whale information section, plus an
aquarium, performing seals, lots of information on wildlife, play areas, and no signs telling
you what to do.
A disastrous flood here in 1953 killed 2,000 people and caused 75,000 to be
evacuated. The defences against the sea had been allowed to run down in the post war
recovery and the Cold War, so they were unprepared for the flood. The protection scheme
took several decades to complete, with state of the art engineering, and environmentalists
ensured that it incorporated features to protect the marine and bird life. Today, beautiful
families are exploring the sights, the little girls dressed in stylish but pleasingly childish
clothes.
We exit the storm surge barrier, cross the rest of the Delta and then skirt Rotterdam on
huge motorways with frightening cloverleaves. Immense port and industrial areas stretch
into the distance. It‟s a relief to arrive at Delft and find a spot for the night in a car park
beside a shopping centre. It‟s the most beautiful little town, all canals and quaint old
buildings. Unfortunately even though this is where Vermeer lived and worked (and where
the novel and film “The Girl With The Pearl Earring” are set), there are no original Vermeer
paintings held here. We visit the Oude Kerk where he is buried. Again it‟s all bicycles, with
children carried in unorthodox ways including babies in front packs. The cyclists are so
relaxed, texting and eating, with not a helmet to be seen. The canals have cute little bridges
over them and abundant moorhens with chicks, plus we see a duck nesting box which
consists of a woven wicker house with a ramp. When I buy a couple of pieces of battered
fish for lunch, I ask what sort of fish it is. In perfect English, as always, the guy says “Hake,
a cousin of the haddock”. The Dutch will be the most perfect English speakers we come
across on our trip.
Trying to leave town we get tied up in canals and one way streets and stop to ask a
young man for directions. He tells us about his trip to New Zealand when he went bungy
jumping, skydiving and swimming with dolphins. We see birds flying high and decide that
they must be storks.
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Next stop is Aalsmeer a small peaceful town of canals, and a lake where people are
out boating in a variety of craft. We park by the lake, cook and eat dinner outside, boil the
Kelly kettle (thermette) for the dishes, and spend a pleasant evening with the moorhens,
swans, ducks, geese, thrushes, pigeons, crows and magpies. But as often happens when we
park on the edge of a town, there are a few too many people coming and going in the night,
so about midnight we drive into town and find a spot in a car park.
Next day it‟s my birthday and we‟re up at 6.30, driving back to our spot by the lake
for a lovely breakfast outside. Then in a state of great excitement we head to the
Bloemenveiling flower auction, the largest in the world, covering 600,000 square metres or
one hundred and forty five football fields. Twenty one million flowers are auctioned there
every day, with a daily turnover of six million Euros, and nearly two thousand people are
employed. It‟s a cooperative of six thousand growers from Europe, Africa, South America
and the Middle East. The price starts high and comes down: a Dutch auction. The flowers
are delivered at night, auctioned during the morning, then shipped out. We stroll along
elevated walkways above the action and beneath us is a frenetic scene of people with
barrows, trolleys and bikes, and trains with carriages laden with flowers, all busily moving
the most glorious blooms here and there with little fuss and lots of good humour. We look in
at the auction rooms where the buyers sit in a tiered theatre at computer terminals, with the
flowers at the front, and computer displays track the sales. Quality is everything and the
flowers are examined in a testing area with the title of “fleur primeur” awarded to a select
few. The most popular varieties are roses, then tulips, chrysanthemums and gerberas. From
above it seems like a glorious ballet, or a metaphor for the Netherlands and their ability to
organise things with such efficiency and flair, while appearing casual and relaxed.
Afterwards we take the motorway to Amsterdam in a thunderstorm. The morning is
dark with rain and we manage to take a couple of wrong turns. After a quick recovery we
find the Gaasperplaas camping ground on the outskirts of the city, and wait in the queue
outside the gate. They put us in an area with the other camper vans then we go to the camp
cafe for a coffee. The mostly male young customers in the cafe seem sullen and rude, and the
woman behind the counter is tough and stressed. Then there‟s an altercation at the next table.
A young man is rolling a joint, the manager appears and has him out the door so fast his feet
barely skim the ground. He is read the riot act then one of his friends, very Bob Marley in
appearance, joins in the argument, and starts accusing the manager of being a racist. We‟re
shocked. They leave shortly afterwards and we chat to the manager who tells us that it‟s
illegal to smoke cannabis in the bar. He‟s not concerned about what they might do on their
camp site, but with children around, any public smoking of drugs is forbidden. We get the
impression that the cannabis laws mainly suit the tourists, and that the locals are unhappy
about what goes on.
By the time we get settled it‟s midday and bleary eyed and sullen young men are
lurking everywhere. Most emerge from tents in a field, and with the rain we feel like we‟re
in a Woodstock time warp. The car park is full of cars from all over the EU. One is called
9
Babylon Van. We suddenly feel very old and bored with it all, but the meaning of
Gaasperplass is clear.
In the camper van area the Italians never stop talking. Some are very jolly but there
are a couple of peevish women who lock themselves in their campers, leaving the husbands
to circle pathetically and knock on the doors and windows. It‟s very entertaining.
The Potato Eaters
We catch the train from the camp into Amsterdam, and the centre of town is a bit of a
disappointment with crowds of young men on stag dos, endless cannabis cafes, and party pill
and porn shops. We console ourselves with Irish stew in an Irish pub and watch some of the
Chinese Olympics Opening Ceremony. Needing inspiration, we decide to spend the next day
at a museum.
The van Gogh Museum is a great choice, a wonderful antidote to the hedonistic
tourism we‟ve seen so far. “The Potato Eaters”, which shows the dark interior of a house and
peasants eating a meal of potatoes, and “Almond Blossom” (white blossom against a bright
blue sky) are highlights.
We go for a long walk through streets of apartment blocks designed in the style of the
Amsterdam School of architecture. This is Old Dutch combined with Art Nouveau, from the
years 1910 to 1930. The apartments were built for working class people and they look as
good to live in now as they were then, all curving lines with lots of detail, none higher than
four stories. We walk along canals lined with boats. Surprisingly a number are sunken and
semi submerged.
Next day we go into town again and have a look at a group of beautiful old two
storied houses built side by side in the 19th century, each in the style of a different country:
Germany, Spain, Italy, Russia, Netherlands, France and England. It‟s such an orderly and
civilised city in so many ways. Then we stumble upon the Hollandse Manege, an indoor
riding school built in 1882 and run today with fifty horses. From the street we can see ponies
in beautiful old stalls remarkably similar to the illustrations in my childhood copy of “Black
Beauty”. Inside, from a viewing platform on a mezzanine floor we watch a class of eight
adult beginners walking for fifteen, then trotting for thirty minutes. I find it fascinating.
As a pedestrian in Amsterdam it‟s a challenge to stay alert for the cycles, scooters,
trams, buses and cars whizzing past. Children are carried in every way imaginable on cycles,
including standing up on the back. We go to Vondelpark, a big inner city park full of people
enjoying themselves, and come across a stage with musicians performing. The audience
contains all ages including tiny children climbing onto the stage and homeless men grooving
up the front. It‟s a very tolerant and relaxed group of people. Afterwards we walk to the
Riaz restaurant for delicious Surinam curries with roti.
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Seeing wonderful sights day after day can get exhausting so we spend the next day in
the camp reading travel guides, looking at maps, and grappling with the washing machine and
drier.
We‟ve been on the road less than two weeks and still have a lot to learn. In hindsight
we should never have wasted money on a camp in Amsterdam. In all the big cities we visit
after this we go it alone in car parks or parked on the street. At this early stage we‟re still
hung up on showers and laundries.
Next day we queue in the rain outside Anne Frank‟s house for an hour with people
from all over the world, mainly teenagers. It‟s the building where her father had his business
and where the family and some friends were hidden for two years in an annex at the back.
When they were betrayed and taken to concentration camps, all the furniture was stripped
from the rooms. It hasn‟t been replaced but the rooms now contain photos, writings, and film
of Anne‟s father Otto Frank, and the women who worked with him, talking about what
happened. There are detailed models of the rooms showing the layout. Even the pencil
marks on the wallpaper showing the children‟s heights are still there. The concealed entrance
to the annexe is shown with a bookcase jutting out from the wall. We find it all quite
overwhelming. I hear a young American woman say “The diaries are really good. It‟s kind
of like an early Big Brother”.
We take a walk past some of the places of significance to the Dutch Resistance.
Jewish people hid in animal enclosures in the zoo to keep safe, and some non Jews chose to
wear yellow stars in solidarity with their Jewish friends. Apparently the Nazis confiscated
people‟s bikes, and years later, in the 1960s, one of the Dutch princesses married a German.
As they paraded down the street people called out “Give me back my bike!”
Leaving Amsterdam we decide to take the slow route to Arnhem and drive the back
roads past Hilversum, Amersfoort and Scherpenzeel, getting lost at times but enjoying the
houses with their thatched roofs, canals and countryside. Horses and small dairy herds stand
in lush pasture. Massive silage heaps sit close to houses. The Brits and Europeans seem to
have a higher tolerance for muck heaps and silage than Kiwis do.
We drive through fabulous areas of beech forest and miles of tree-lined avenues with
cycle paths beside the road. We want to see the Rhine so we stop at Oosterbeek, now a very
wealthy little town, where the Battle of Arnhem was fought in WW2. We talk to a guy with a
very old camper, and he tells us that taxes are very high, people have to work hard to make
any money, everyone is watching you, and a disabled person only gets 430 Euros a month to
live on. He also says that we shouldn‟t attempt to sleep the night in the car park as the Politie
will come and move us on. We ignore his advice and stay the night parked opposite a hotel
where casualties were treated during Operation Market Garden in September 1944, when the
Allies launched the largest airborne operation of all time aiming to secure bridges in German
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occupied areas. Mindful however of the possible interest of the Politie, I cook a discreet meal
of curried kidney beans, instant mash and green beans with the windows and door closed.
A Bridge Too Far
Next morning we drive down to the wide Neder Rijn, a branch of the Rhine, to have a
coffee, and watch the little ferry taking people and bicycles across. The river is very busy
with big barges and all sorts of pleasure boats passing.
We visit the Airborne Museum which has a memorial with the following heart
stopping inscription: “To the people of Gelderland 1944. 50 years ago British and Polish
airborne soldiers fought here against the odds to open the way into Germany and bring the
war to an early end. Instead we brought death and destruction for which you have never
blamed us. This stone marks our admiration for your great courage, remembering especially
the women who tended our wounded. In the long winter that followed your families risked
death by hiding Allied soldiers and airmen while members of the Resistance helped many to
safety. You took us into your homes as fugitives and friends, we took you forever into our
hearts. This strong bond will continue long after we are all gone.”
The museum tells the story of the ill fated Operation Market Garden, where Polish,
American and British troops parachuted and glided in, in an attempt to capture bridges on the
Rhine and other waterways. At the same time British ground troops advanced from the
Belgian/Dutch border. Once the Rhine was crossed, the intention was to surround the Ruhr
and advance on Berlin. The operation was unsuccessful, leaving 17,000 dead from the
Airborne Corps, and 10,000 from the ground forces. The bond forged between the Allies and
the local people is legendary. For me the most poignant items in the museum are old
ampoules of morphine and tablets of Benzedrine in a first aid kit.
We walk through the forest surrounding the museum and hear the ricocheting bullet
call of nuthatches as they walk head first down tree trunks looking for insects. Then bizarrely
twenty soldiers with weapons march along the road.
The Commonwealth War Graves Commission cemetery in Oosterbeek has the graves
of 1750 soldiers, including two New Zealanders. It‟s surrounded by beautiful old oak trees.
Feeling devastated by the particularly savage history of this area, we retire to the river bank
to boil the Kelly kettle, have a cup of tea, cook sausages over the embers, and eat them with
instant mash, green beans and left over curry sauce. A few men are fishing further along the
river. We decide to investigate a bridge in the distance and end up on a motorway driving
across the main branch of the Rhine on what turns out to be a massive new suspension bridge.
Mesmerised by it all we miss the exit and continue to Nijmegen past a sprawling industrial
area and canals. It‟s been raining, and the black sky contrasts beautifully with the intense
green of the vegetation.
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The last bit of sightseeing we have time for in the Netherlands is the Hoge Veluwe
National Park. On the drive there John comments that the roads here are so smooth that he
can drink a mug of apple juice while driving and not spill a drop. In three months time we
will experience the complete opposite in Romania, where it can be smoother to travel off the
road.
The Hogue Veluwe National Park covers an area of twenty one square miles, made up
of heathlands, sand dunes and woodlands. A wealthy couple, Anton Kroller and Helene
Kroller-Muller, developed the land and acquired an important art collection here in the early
20th century. It was subsequently taken over by a trust. It‟s a wonderful place to visit, with
paths and roads throughout, and beech, Scots pine, and silver birch forest. Because of over
farming in previous centuries there are also large areas of sand.
The art museum has floor to ceiling windows which look out onto the forest. It‟s a
fabulous setting to appreciate paintings by van Gogh, Picasso, Monet and Mondrian. Also
sculptures by Rodin, Dubuffet, New Zealander Chris Booth and others are displayed on
undulating land among fabulous trees and lawns.
We end our visit by cooking dinner on the heath, then spend the night in nearby
Otterlo, at the side of the road between a cemetery and a field of maize. It‟s a peaceful rural
scene with just a few mildly curious people walking their dogs past us the next morning.
Heading to the German border via Appeldoorn and Almelo we realise that we‟ve
forgotten to take the classic photo of a cow by a canal! And we‟ve bypassed the town of
Rectum, a lost photo opportunity.
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Chapter 2 Germany
16 August – 3 September
Vitriolic
We cross into Germany on a scorching hot day and the only difference is the dairy
cows are replaced by cereal crops and potatoes. At the town of Lingen we buy a dictionary,
and stay the night, slightly tense to be in a new country, letting the language wash over us.
Next day the landscape is full of oak and beech forest, factory farms with vast fields
and few fences, wind generators, massive brick barns with solar panels, and horses. The
roads are beautiful and empty. We‟re looking for a pool and a shower and end up at Bad
Fallingbostel, in the Netto supermarket car park for the night, eating a tired travellers‟ dinner
of baked beans on instant mash followed by custard and banana.
The pool has a curious sign outside: “Groups of British children without an adult will
not be allowed to enter the premises”. John is initiated into what will become a familiar
activity – exchanging morning greetings with the other nude blokes in the communal shower.
I‟m pathetically grateful to find a private cubicle in the women‟s area.
What‟s brought us to this part of the country is the Vogelpark (bird park) at Walsrode,
and by the time we arrive it‟s busy with bird lovers in spite of the rain. It‟s a huge botanic
garden of beautiful trees and plants in immaculate order, with enclosures for the birds, and
mature conifers, rhododendrons and roses attractively laid out and well tended. As we enter
the humid rainforest enclosure we discover a demister for spectacles. That German attention
to detail! The penguins are very popular, being so far from home, but we love the exotic
roadrunners, toucans, hornbills, shoebills, hyacinth macaw, flamingos, scarlet ibis and blue
crowned pigeon.
We decide to take the fast autobahn south to Goslar, through a picturesque rolling
landscape of forests and farms with crops. The motorways have frequent picnic areas with
toilets and parking, as well as commercial rest areas with cafes. The van‟s cigarette lighter
dies, a catastrophe as we use it to charge everything, but fortunately John has the correct fuse
on board and manages to fix it.
In Goslar we walk through the rain to the main square which is made up of perfect old
timber framed buildings restored to the nth degree. Many are decorated with bricks,
colourful carvings, friezes, and writing in golden script. The town boasts eighteen hundred
buildings in this style, with the old part now a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Goslar, part of
the Hanseatic League, was founded in the 10th century after silver was discovered in the
nearby Rammelsberg mountain.
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The Rammelsberg Mine was worked continuously for over a thousand years then
closed in 1988 when the reserves of silver, lead, zinc and copper were exhausted.
Archaeological evidence shows that there was mining on the site as far back as three
thousand years ago. We visit the old mine and museum, and take the underground tour with
a female guide who gives us great explanations in English, after she‟s given the spiel in
German.
The ore all came from the same rock, and colourful vitriol, which was formed by
water dripping over elements like copper and zinc, was used for medicines. In the Middle
Ages the miners descended eighteen hundred feet into the mine on narrow metal ladders
carrying fifty five pounds of gear. It took them an hour to get down and probably longer to
ascend. They worked for part of the year, and were paid only for what they extracted. Prior
to the 1800s when explosives were introduced, big fires would be lit in the mine on a Sunday,
causing the rock to explode, then in the following days the miners would enter and extract the
ore while the temperature was still high. Because the rock was incredibly stable, formed by a
long extinct volcano, there was no need for props and never any cave ins. Waterwheels were
also introduced in the 1800s, and this enabled the miners to work all year and increase their
income. We see the old water channel and two waterwheels (thirty feet in diameter), one to
take water in, the other to take the ore out. We learn that tin was brought over from Cornwall
to make bronze.
The museum has extensive displays of old mining equipment plus photographs and
explanations of the mining process. For us the most fascinating part is the information on the
miners in the 20th century. During WW2 people were brought in from France, the
Netherlands, Belgium and the Ukraine (many young women) as forced labour, and Italian
officers and soldiers were sent there after the fall of Mussolini. There is film footage of Nazi
meetings in Goslar, and a folder of pages of documentation for a Ukrainian man taken there
as forced labour. The words of a song sung by Ukrainian forced labourers (to the tune of a
popular Russian folk song) say it all:
“Fate has cast so many to this place, There is no way back home, The road towards
the East is closed, Thus dwindle the years of our youth.
Every morning I get up, Half starved and very homesick, The Germans have made me
a slave, I view them with anger and wrath in my heart.
Sirens are wailing, it is midnight, Our nerves are on edge, The English Air Force
sends in squadrons, To make life difficult for the Germans.
Over there where the east is ablaze, There the long way leads back home to mothers
and brothers, They struggle hard for their freedom, While here we slave for the hated
people.”
15
From the 1960s men from Spain worked in the mine, and Turks from 1971.
Sometimes old or injured miners would make a model of the workings of the mine which
would be displayed at fairs and gatherings. We see a perfectly crafted one from 1904 with
tiny figures performing tasks on several levels. There is also a miners‟ banner from 1787,
and pages from a book on mining called “De Re Metallica” (“On the Nature of Metals”)
published in 1556.
That evening we have a drink in the square and watch the world go by. We take our
washing to the laundrette where they offer to put it in the drier for us so it will be ready to
collect in the morning. We spend a peaceful night in the car park with a few other camper
vans and next morning visit another excellent pool for a shower.
As we head towards Quedlinburg we see that the leaves on the chestnuts are turning
yellow. Swifts are performing their crazy airborne antics. Haybales crouch like wildebeest
in a huge field while buzzards circle above.
Quedlinburg is a little town with cute old timber framed houses, many of them
rundown, similar to Goslar but visibly lacking the UNESCO funding. It has the oldest timber
framed house in Germany, built about 1300, now a museum. The local children are having a
flea market in the village square with books and toys spread out in front of them on the
cobblestones: dolls and plastic castles alongside action figures. Colourful geraniums in
baskets adorn many of the buildings. John buys me an antique ring made of seventeen little
Czech garnets (Granat in German) set in silver.
Two Beavers and a Weasel
We work out the route to our friend Rieke‟s address on the outskirts of Halle by
looking up Google maps and Mappy. In the back of the van we‟ve brought a carton of her
gear from when we lived and worked together in Surrey. We‟re looking forward to staying
with her family for a few days, after meeting them when they came to visit in England a few
months ago. We travel on empty motorways past endless wind turbines.
It‟s wonderful to find their place at last and a big thrill to see friends after two weeks
on the road. On the first night we eat a delicious traditional German dinner of
Schweinebraten (pork) with Klosen (dumplings), sauerkraut and potatoes, and for dessert
Rote Grutze (made by gently cooking mixed red berries like red currants, raspberries and
cherries, adding fruit syrup and sugar, then thickening the mixture with cornstarch, before
setting it in the fridge).
We go for a walk around the neighbourhood, past fabulous vegetable and flower
gardens. A former electricity substation, a tall narrow brick building, has been converted into
a bird house where the birds can feed and collect nesting material.
16
Rieke‟s mother produces wonderful German breakfasts for us each day with beautiful
bread rolls, various sausages and salamis, fishy things, jams, tea, coffee and other drinks. On
this day we really need it as we‟re heading off on a canoe trip on the Saale/Unstrut River
through an area famous for its wine.
We enter the river in our open Canadian style canoes at Grossheringen, and
immediately relax as we glide past willows at the water‟s edge, and oak forests and vineyards
on steep hillsides. It‟s a wide slow flowing river with swallows, nuthatches, ducks, herons,
and pigeons. A couple of nutria, little beaver like creatures with thin tails, pop their heads out
of the water, and we see a black weasel. There are old stone bridges, and a big gorge with a
couple of castles. We stop for a traditional German lunch at Bad Kosen: bratwurst with
mustard, potato, sauerkraut, and salad. We portage the canoes at this point because there‟s a
low dam which used to run a water wheel. For a couple of centuries it powered pumps to
take salty water from a spring, six hundred feet uphill, to a huge wooden post and beam
structure (the graduation) about five hundred feet long and thirty feet high, filled with
bundles of sticks, which propelled the water into the air in a fine concentrated spray. People
used to go there to breathe it to improve their health. The engineering is quite incredible.
Two parallel pistons slowly jerk back and forth providing power to the pump while the water
is carried in a trough between them. It still functions perfectly.
After a relaxing day on the river we eat a delicious dinner in the garden: bread,
sausage, tomatoes, gherkins, sardines, horseradish, liverwurst, and white wines from the area
we canoed through. As we sit under an old willow we look up and see two owls looking
down at us. They‟ve been nesting here for two years now. At nine o‟clock one of them
soundlessly flies away. I think they‟re tawny owls.
Next day we visit Halle with Rieke‟s father as our guide, and Rieke the ever patient
interpreter. We walk around the old cemetery which fell into disrepair in the days of the
GDR (Communism), but is now being restored with money from an American woman, the
daughter of a Nobel Prize winning scientist born in Halle. We go past the house where
Handel was born and into an old church where we see the death mask of Martin Luther,
whose funeral procession passed through the town. Halle‟s wealth was founded on salt
which was produced here for centuries, and later it was the centre of the chemical industry.
We see a sculpture of a religious figure grappling with another person. Because it was
created in the GDR days, the religious figure couldn‟t be shown with his high hat and was
given a bouffant hairdo instead. We also see a house where a senior Catholic cleric lived
with his girlfriends. A modern mural shows various figures including the girlfriends, and a
rascal who was put to death after seducing one of them.
We lunch on Kartoffelpuffer mit Apfelmus (potato fritters with applesauce) then head
home for coffee and cake in the garden with all the family. We cook three curries for dinner
and they go down very well with everyone. It‟s fun using our few words of German,
especially with the wee four year old, but mainly Rieke interprets for us all. It‟s our last night
17
and we ask so many questions about the GDR days and German history. When we fall into
bed and John tries unsuccessfully to tune in to the BBC, the only station he can get is Radio
Russia with news about their actions in Georgia and how many medals they won at the
Olympics.
The Gingham Glider
Sadly we leave Halle and head south east towards Dresden on the motorway, stopping
at a rest area with lorries from Slovakia, Poland, the Czech Republic, Hungary and the
Netherlands. At Grimma we visit a supermarket to buy fish fingers which we eat for lunch
on heavy bread with mayonnaise and sauerkraut, washed down with a deliciously syrupy malt
drink. We stop in the village of Colditz, tidy things in the back of the van, and look out the
window to see a Ford Escort with GB on the back parked nearby. We don‟t see the owners
but it‟s always a slight thrill to see another Brit vehicle, not at all surprising in such close
proximity to Colditz Castle, the infamous WW2 prisoner of war camp for Allied officers with
a history of escaping.
We walk up to the castle not knowing what to expect and discover that there‟s a tour
in English about to start. Apparently they have twenty thousand visitors a year from all over
the world, including many Brits who are mainly interested in the escape attempts. In our tour
there are two young Brit guys and a Danish/Spanish couple. The castle dates from the 16th
century and had been used as a workhouse for the poor, then from the early 1800s as a mental
hospital. Now it‟s part museum, part youth hostel, and a large area is being restored for a
music centre. It‟s situated on a hill above the town, with a high terrace overlooking the river
and surrounding countryside. One former Olympic medal winning prisoner managed to
escape off the terrace by miraculously climbing down the outside of the windows, only to be
caught in the garden.
The tour guide mentions the Geneva Convention frequently, making the place sound a
bit like “Hi de Hi”. Most of the successful escape attempts were from the park or the kitchen
and it seems that the tunnelling may have been good for morale but not much else. The
French made a painstaking and ingenious attempt where seventy would have escaped through
a tunnel if they hadn‟t been discovered. A special section housed the relatives of high profile
Brits who were watched extra closely. They included two Churchills and the son of WW1
commander Field Marshall Haig.
The most intriguing object on display is a replica of a glider (the Colditz Cock) that
the Brit prisoners made in secret at the top of the castle. They never got a chance to use it but
it was photographed by the Americans when they arrived to liberate the camp, and
subsequently destroyed. It‟s one third the size of the original glider, made of recycled
materials, and covered in blue gingham from bedding, giving it the rounded form of a soft
toy.
18
The stories from Colditz are fascinating. One prisoner used to reproduce maps by
making up a jelly from a food parcel, forming a large rubbery stamp, then using it to print
thirty copies. Someone else sent a letter home to his father asking him to go to the British
Museum to see if he could find the plans to Colditz Castle, then send them over, which he
did. There‟s a chapel with galleries on three levels where the inmates of the workhouse were
sent to church with a memorial to the workers in the mental hospital who died in WW1.
The Allied prisoners made two dummies which they used to take outside for the roll
call when anyone escaped, to trick the guards into believing that everyone was present. Two
replica dummies now stand in the yard, one bearing a remarkable resemblance to Rowan
Atkinson. The tour and the museum are presented in a “Boys‟ Own Annual” style which is
probably what the punters want.
Back in the van we have black bean stir fried vegetables with sauerkraut and watch
the boy racers revving it up along the main street in their flash cars. John says he‟s noticed
we‟re the only ones who leak oil in car parks.
The Freital Position
Next day, back on the motorway heading to Dresden, we drive past ploughed fields
and wind turbines, and see a kestrel, buzzards, and flocks of starlings. An old red Skoda with
the top down and three men huddled inside overtakes then leaves us for dead. We search for
a place to park on the edge of Dresden, preferably a car park beside a railway station. We
end up driving down a narrow valley and check out Tharandt, a little village of cute old
buildings, like a mountain resort, with steep forest on both sides. We decide it‟s not ideal and
drive on to Freital, a bigger town and find a park by the railway station and bus terminal with
a toilet, internet cafe, and lots of sun and space. It‟s one of our best parks.
Walking along the main street Dresdenstrasse for the length of the town, we see many
abandoned factories and newish apartment blocks. The visitors‟ centre has information in
English and we discover that Freital is a former coal mining town, and the main industry is
now a steelworks. The museum is a small castle, the home of the former coal mine owner,
which reminds us of the Welsh valleys and Merthyr Tydfall. We swoon over the old enamel
and cast iron cookware, and enamel street signs and house numbers in a second hand shop.
John buys an enamel number one, white on a blue background and I find an old enamel onion
container with “Zwiebeln” written on it in German script. There are also army hats
emblazoned with the hammer and sickle. When we tell the charming woman behind the
counter that we‟re from New Zealand, she becomes quite animated and shows her boss where
it is on an old globe.
In the evening we walk past the steelworks lit up for the night shift. It‟s near a street
of stylish four storeyed houses from the early 1900s, some run down and others in perfect
condition with lovely gardens and huge trees. Back home, over a year later, I discover that
19
Allied prisoners of war in Freital witnessed Allied bombing raids on factories there. Between
1946 and 1990 a company called Wismut mined uranium near Freital, extracting four
thousand tons, and many miners died of lung cancer.
Next day we drive to a pool up the valley for a shower, and discover a peaceful car
park beside allotments where people have their summer houses, with colourful gardens full of
roses and sunflowers, and happy people out in the sun tending them and talking. We have
toast and Marmite with coffee and read in the back of the van in the sun. I realise that I‟m
reading a copy of the Sunday Times which is a month old. We hear Crowded House and
Johnny Farnham on the local radio station. One night we pick up a Polish station and hear
about David Beckham and a double decker bus. We wonder if it‟s the closing ceremony of
the Olympic Games in Beijing.
Public sculpture is abundant in the former East Germany, and Freital has the most
joyous examples: a square pool with just the partial heads and shoulders of happy people
poking out, a topless woman wearing a serious expression washing a man‟s hair over a large
bowl, and some dwarves drinking and dancing while a fiddler plays.
We‟re astounded to see alcohol on sale at petrol stations, cheap cigarettes in vending
machines on street corners, and huge advertising billboards showing young people having a
great time while smoking. When we asked Rieke about whether the government intervened
in public health matters here, she said that post GDR, everyone was understandably very keen
to avoid anything resembling a nanny state.
At the local petrol station I have a lovely exchange with the woman attendant who
speaks no English but manages to tell me that her son is on a cycle trip from one end of New
Zealand to the other.
Dresden is the birthplace of several important inventions: the coffee filter, bra, SLR
camera and toothpaste tube. We travel into the city on the train three days in a row and only
on the last day do we get the tickets right! Even then we probably pay too much but at least
we‟re legit. The locals whose help we enlist at the stations clearly have only slightly more
idea than us when it comes to choosing the correct tickets from the machine. The guards on
the trains are polite and forgiving. The train trip takes nine minutes, past enormous
contrasting new and abandoned factories and apartment buildings.
On the first day we walk around the old part of town with lots of German tourists,
climb the tower of the Kreuzkirche, and get an expansive view in all directions. There‟s a
superb wind trio playing classical music outside the recently restored Frauenkirche. The
quality of the buskers here is astounding. We visit the huge bookshop Fachbuch, and in the
three bays of books in English I find Kurt Vonnegut‟s “Slaughterhouse-Five” (a novel about
the Allied bombing of Dresden, which he witnessed as a POW), Gunter Grass‟s
autobiography “Peeling the Onion”, “Emma”, and “David Copperfield”. Oh joy!
20
Back in Freital we have a long session at a LIDL supermarket, then dinner of salad
made with very cheap and delicious salted salmon in oil and dill, salad greens, red onion, a
can of corn, tomatoes, gherkins and mayonnaise. Deciding that we no longer need two
folding chairs, John puts the larger one in the middle of the large grassy area next to our car
park, as an installation. It has its back turned towards the bus and train stations. The next
day when we return to the van someone has moved it a couple of meters and turned it round,
and the following day it disappears. It‟s come a long way from a church fair in Newcastle
three years ago.
Next day we find another huge bookshop with an even better English section, and
John buys “Firestorm: the Bombing of Dresden”, a recent collection of articles by academics
which covers every aspect of the bombing. Our eyes are opened by a passage on
reconstruction which compares architectural plans to a musical score. If a building is
destroyed it can be rebuilt. There‟s a discussion of different philosophies of reconstruction
under the Russians and post 1989. We buy postcards of the destroyed city which show miles
of random walls with gaping holes where the windows were, and no roofs.
We also visit the Zwinger, the most famous building in Dresden, built in the early 18 th
century and consisting of a series of galleries, pavilions and gates surrounding a huge
courtyard with lawns and fountains. The scale of the place is its most attractive feature for
us, as the cherubs and highly decorative style of the architecture are not our cup of tea. We
visit the Old Masters Gallery and see paintings by Titian, Vermeer, Durer and Velasquez, and
tapestries by Raphael. We especially enjoy some paintings of Venice by Canaletto, and the
paintings he did of Dresden when he was younger. The cityscape of the Elbe River below the
Augustus Bridge is just the same now as it was when he painted it in 1748. The restored
buildings have blackened stone next to new stone and we wonder if the original stone was
blackened by coal smoke as in Newcastle, or by the bombing and subsequent firestorm.
The buildings beside the river with the Augustus Bridge and promenade are a
wonderful sight. They flow in a way quite unlike anything we‟ve seen before. The Allies‟
decision to bomb this beautiful city is very hard to understand.
My favourite sight in Dresden is the Furstenzug, a mural made of twenty four
thousand Meissen porcelain tiles, showing a procession of the Saxon rulers over nine
centuries, on horseback, with horses and men dressed in period costume. It‟s one hundred
and eleven yards long, and towers above the goggling tourists on the street below. The detail
is quite breathtaking. Apparently it was not damaged in the bombing.
On our walk from the station to the old town we pass many tacky hotels, modern
buildings, and enormous building sites with cranes everywhere. It‟s a seething mass of road
works and diversions as the city transforms itself. We‟re astounded to discover that the
rebuilding of the old Dresden has only recently been completed.
21
In the heart of the tourist area we see a stretched Trabant car and there are tiny toy
Trabants for sale. Back at Freital there‟s a Trabant ambulance with a red light on top, and
one up a pole. They were the main vehicle in East Germany in the Communist era, tiny cars
with two stroke motors. Now they seem to be symbolic of the nostalgia some people feel for
the GDR (Ostalgia).
On our last day in Dresden it rains and we visit the Grosser Garten, a park with a
palace, miniature railway and a zoo. We wander past beds of enormous dahlias and under
beautiful trees. At the market we buy peaches and three little salamis which we hang in the
back of the van.
Next day we drive over to Neuestadt on the other side of the Elbe. We discover later
that it was the Jewish quarter prior to the 1930s. We do three loads of washing and drying for
ten Euros in a state of the art laundrette with twenty washing machines and a central control
panel. Then we set out on the smooth concrete motorway for Weimar.
22
So It Goes
Motorway construction in Germany is impressive: thick pads of concrete. This one is
being expanded, and we stay in fifth gear for miles, through flat to rolling country. We pass a
strip of solar panels fifteen feet wide and at least half a mile long beside an industrial area,
and lots of buzzards.
We find a hospitable looking car park in Weimar, near an eighty year old outdoor
pool. When we ask about a shower, John is shown into the men‟s changing area and I get
taken to the sauna which isn‟t being used. It has a bar, spa pool, showers, and a large wooden
bucket near the ceiling with a rope attached, which I‟m careful not to activate.
Beautiful trees and a garden of sunflowers make this a very attractive place for
camper vans. Sitting in the front seat that night, drinking a German Riesling from a bottle
with a glass stopper and a label describing it as dry and mentioning limestone, we see a great
spotted woodpecker on a larch tree just a few metres away.
Next day we walk into the town centre which is a series of beautiful old squares, and a
wide avenue, Schillerstrasse. The gardens and trees are exceptional. Outside the Bauhaus
Museum a flower bed fifteen feet wide is densely packed, and every so often there‟s a
fabulous transparent grass which is translucent like spraying water. A vacant patch of land is
planted with white and purple flowers. The gingko tree is the town‟s emblem, after a famous
poem by Goethe, and there‟s an avenue of young ones by the Bauhaus University. The place
is packed with German tourists as there is both a cultural and a wine festival. We have a very
cold glass of Riesling in a square at 11.30am then a picnic in the beautiful botanic gardens
beside the Ilm River. There are many fabulous trees, mainly green beech and copper beech.
Later we visit the site of the former Gestapo headquarters for the region. Some of the
buildings have been demolished and the crushed building materials have been spread on the
ground as part of the memorial.
Weimar is famous for its cultural heritage, with a long list of writers, composers and
artists resident in the 19th and 20th centuries, and the Bauhaus school of architecture founded
here by Walter Gropius in 1919. It seems to be a Mecca for older Germans.
Enjoying the hot weather we sit in the square with glasses of Federweisser (young
wine with a low alcohol content, made from freshly pressed grape juice), and listen to a jazz
band. Later, we walk back to the van and drive a short distance to the edge of town to the
hundred year old German Bee Museum which shows the history of beekeeping with old
hives, honey extraction machines, and information for the bee enthusiast, namely John. Our
favourites are the very old hives made from hollow tree trunks carved and painted to look like
larger than life people, with openings to let the bees in and out. A particularly risqué one
from 1800 is in the form of a naked woman.
23
The site of the Buchenwald concentration camp is just up the road from Weimar, on
Ettersberg Hill. It‟s on limestone, looking out over flatter land to the south which reminds us
of the North Downs in Surrey. John walks around a large part of the camp but I just look at
the tall stone memorial. Nearly a quarter of a million people were brought here by the
trainload, through Weimar, from 1937 until liberation in 1945. Over fifty thousand died in
the main camp and its one hundred and thirty satellites, from overwork, disease, starvation,
and execution. The sheer scale of it is overwhelming. We ponder the involvement of the
people of Weimar. It must have intruded into their consciousness. From 1945 to 1950 the
Russian occupiers imprisoned over one hundred and twenty thousand people in the camp, and
over fifty thousand died.
Driving back to town we stop at an outdoor shop to buy some cooking gas from a
Canadian woman and a German man. They say a lot of their German customers are
travelling to New Zealand, but they have never had New Zealanders in the shop before. They
are very warm and friendly, in fact all the German people we talk to are outgoing and kind
towards us.
We can‟t leave Weimar without visiting the small Bauhaus Museum which has some
very fine pieces of furniture, and kitchen items like coffee pots and cups from that era of
German design (1900 to 1930). Some items look quite contemporary.
Later when I‟m in the back of the van making salt salmon and avocado salad, John
reports that a camper bigger than our beach house in New Zealand has just driven into the car
park. It‟s called Concorde. We always wonder what people do inside these vast vehicles
Next morning when we get up there‟s a Polizei van parked nearby and by the time we
return from our shower at the pool there are twelve Polizei vehicles in the car park,
intermingled with the camper vans. It looks like one of our fellow travellers is giving some
of them a coffee! They wander around in their overalls, very relaxed, and we assume that
they‟re on some kind of exercise.
We head southwest on motorways through Scots pine and fir forests which are being
logged, enormous tunnels (the longest is five miles), and across massive viaducts. We‟re on
our way to Stuttgart and our friend Vera Maria who we last saw a year ago when we lived
and worked together in Surrey.
24
Chapter 3 Germany, Czech Republic
3 September – 20 September
Marzipan Potatoes
The number of lorries on German motorways is astounding, and probably an
indication of the strength of German industry. South of Wurzburg we sit in a queue miles
long, crawling slowly for an hour and a half. At one point we‟re sandwiched between a lorry
from Slovakia and one from the Netherlands. It‟s a novel experience and we pass the time
eating beautiful Gravenstein apples and watching buzzards and kestrels. But we decide to
take more notice in future of the understated warning in the road atlas: “traffic jams
possible”. We stop at Backnang, an hour‟s drive from Vera Maria‟s, and wander around in a
state of shock after the tough drive. It‟s a beautiful town with the usual colourful old timber
framed buildings amongst modern shops. People are sitting outside at cafes enjoying the
beautiful evening. We eat a delicious Chinese meal and chat to a man at the next table, an
Iranian who has been in Germany for twenty years, unable to return home. The next day he
will see his brother for the first time since he left Iran.
Next day we‟re in a landscape where apples dominate. Old trees heavy with fruit,
some with branches propped up, appear to be growing wild, and there are numerous orchards.
It‟s beautiful green rolling country with steep volcanic hills and the occasional castle. The
fields and orchards have little huts, and jays are about.
As we approach Vera Maria‟s she phones us to give directions. Then suddenly there
she is by the side of the road on a bicycle, waving. It‟s fantastic to see her after more than a
year.
She leads the way by bicycle to her parents‟ place in Beuren, a little town of gorgeous
old houses in perfect shape. It‟s a converted stable, on four levels, with beams several
centuries old. A pair of swallows has a nest over the front door, returning each year on the
same day. Vera Maria‟s mother gives us coffee in the garden, then takes us to her orchard a
couple of minutes drive away: five acres of very old cherry and apple trees, with ten
beehives, flowers, herbs and vegetables. There‟s even a shed and a campfire. We love it and
could happily stay the night in the shed and cook on the campfire! She and John have a long
discussion on the ways of bees.
After a delicious lunch in the garden Vera Maria takes us to the local castle Burg
Hohenneuffen, high on a forest covered hill, where there‟s a falconry display. The falconers
are in Medieval costume, with a red and white striped tent. The birds sweep low over our
heads as they fly in to catch pieces of meat, resplendent in their leather harnesses and hoods.
The view from the castle is amazing, over cultivated land, forest and towns. It reminds us of
25
the panoramas we‟ve seen from the town hall towers in Tuscany, a patchwork of land that has
been cultivated for centuries, so different from the raw frontier landscape of home.
That night we go out for a traditional Schwabian meal at a little restaurant called
Brunnenstube a couple of doors away from Vera Maria‟s place. It‟s run by a husband and
wife and appears to be in their lounge. John and I both have Zwiebelrostbraten mit
Sauerkraut und Schupfnudeln, very tender roast beef with sauerkraut and a special potato
dish. Huge servings and we eat well.
Next day Vera Maria takes us into Stuttgart, and on the way we visit her old riding
school where she learnt to ride cute little shaggy-maned Icelandic ponies. We also have a
look at her old school Waldorfschule Uhlandshohe Stuttgart, the oldest Steiner school in the
world, with its lovely buildings from several different eras.
We eat a delicious lunch at a cafe, smoked salmon for me, and for John special white
sausages from Munich which come floating in a tureen of hot water. He shows admirable
self control when they appear. After that we‟re off to the State Gallery which has Picassos
and also beautiful local paintings from altar pieces. That‟s when the unfortunate wheel of
fortune incident occurs....
Vera Maria and I are sauntering into a gallery a few paces behind John when an
ominous clunking reverberates around the place. John has reached out and given a wheel of
fortune style sculpture attached to the wall a quick twirl. Little blocks of wood or marbles
rattle as they change position, just as the artist intended. As Vera Maria and I converge on
John I notice a sign on the wall saying “Bitte ... something”, so I work out that it must say
“please do not touch”. Immediately two guards appear, looks of horror on their faces. John
does a very good job of looking contrite. Vera Maria talks fast, in German of course, and we
pick up the word “Englander”, like this is his “Get out of Jail Free” card! The guards stand
their ground, and one says that she doesn‟t know how she is going to tell her boss what has
happened. It‟s very tense. Vera Maria persists with her explanation and manages to smooth
things over, very impressive for a twenty year old, and we are so grateful. We make a quick
exit to the next room and John explains to us that he‟d read the write up in English where the
artist said that he intended for it to be spun to change the pattern. Since the guards are so
upset, Vera Maria decides to go back and apologise to them again. The senior guard confides
that she‟s always wanted to give the sculpture a twirl herself!
We all calm down with a walk around the Schlossplatz a glorious square with
fountains and trees, surrounded by old buildings. Then we sample some high end German
consumer culture with a visit to a fabulous department store with a mezzanine floor crammed
with desirable household items, and on the ground floor a wonderful food market.
That night over a tasty pancake dinner Vera Maria‟s father patiently answers all our
questions. We find out that Danzig in Gunter Grass‟s “Peeling the Onion” is now Gdansk in
26
Poland, and that Germany lost a large chunk of territory to Poland after WW2. The borders
in Europe seem so arbitrary, even temporary.
That night John picks up a radio station from the huge American military base we saw
on our drive south. The announcer says “If you look after the eagle, the eagle will look after
you”.
Our visit with Vera Maria‟s family is over all too soon, and next day we set out with a
delicious packed lunch, jars of honey, and apples, and memories of melt in the mouth apple
strudel. Our goal is to travel west towards the Black Forest. In a field I see a kite which has
a sharp fork in the tail, very different and distinctive in its flight compared with the
ubiquitous buzzards. It‟s only an hour‟s drive to Calw on the edge of the Black Forest, a very
old town famous for the writer Herman Hesse who spent the early part of his life there. It‟s
in a valley surrounded by forest, mainly conifer with some deciduous.
We park beside the railway line, beneath cliffs covered in tall slim conifers which
tower above us. I see a spotted woodpecker and hear a nuthatch. Our clean laundry is still
slightly damp so we put up a clothesline and hang it all out in the sun and wind. There are a
few people around but no-one seems to care about our Gypsy ways. We‟re trying to avoid
the composting washing situation that John discovered a few days earlier. Reaching into his
clean clothes he discovered that they were hot and moist, put away damp from the drier then
sweating in the heat of the back of the van.
We buy some supplies at the supermarket and I discover marzipan potatoes, delicious
little soft balls of marzipan rolled in cocoa. That night I read that Gunter Grass had marzipan
potatoes shortly after signing up with the army at the age of seventeen.
A Walk in the Black Forest
Next morning we get up early to go to a car boot sale which turns out to be pretty
basic - full of bad taste junk. We explore Calw while we wait for the Herman Hesse Museum
to open. The Nagold River runs right through town, parallel to the main street. It‟s crossed
by the Nikolaus Bridge, Calw‟s most important landmark, built around 1400 and renovated in
1863 and 1926. The tiny chapel of St Nikolaus is built on the central pillar. This was
Herman Hesse‟s favourite place, and there‟s a bronze statue of him looking towards the
chapel.
The town is full of old stone buildings and little nooks and crannies to explore
including one house with a living roof of grass and cacti. Herman Hesse is the main tourist
drawcard but unfortunately the Museum has captions in German only. We enjoy the
fascinating collection of photos, letters, manuscripts, paintings, furniture and memorabilia,
and the serene atmosphere. John is absolutely thrilled to make the pilgrimage here and poses
27
to have his photo taken with the statue of a kindly Hesse, in a suit, tie and waistcoat, with his
hat in his hand.
Making the decision to come south and visit Vera Maria has really paid off as we„ve
been able to explore a very beautiful part of Germany, unlike anywhere we‟ve been before.
One guidebook describes it as overpriced cuckoo clock territory, but we‟ve found it easy to
avoid the tour bus path.
It‟s late summer and we‟ve noticed cut flowers sold in a novel way. A big sign says
“Blumen” next to a large patch of gladioli, sunflowers and other flowers in a field. You pick
what you want then leave the money in a tin. It would be so lovely to pick our own flowers,
but we have no vase, table, window sill, or any flat, still surface to put them on!
I see a little bittern on the edge of a pond and a flock of ravens.
We‟re now in Hansel and Gretel country. Rolling fields end abruptly in tall dark
conifer forest. The cows are large and coloured a reddish gold and the farmhouses are huge
with massive roofs and balconies cascading with red geraniums. It‟s picturesque to the max.
We park by the roadside and go for a walk in the forest where moss, ferns and fungi
abound. Tracks, bike paths, and old roads snake through the trees. We spot a very large deer
hoof print. Yellow leaves are falling from silver birches and there‟s an autumn tinge on some
trees, but the rest is dark conifer. Men are out in leather shorts. The woodpiles outside
people‟s houses are works of art, stretching for forty yards or so and stacked in perfect
patterns. The fairytale occupation of woodcutter makes great sense here.
We find a peaceful place for the night in a car park on the outskirts of Furtwangen
beside the Mountain Rescue headquarters. It rains solidly.
A clear sky greets us in the morning as we drive south past white horses, red cows,
and people out Nordic walking with poles. The forest becomes darker, there are ski lifts,
guesthouses with restaurants, and massive cuckoo clock shops. We climb three thousand
feet. The trees are covered in lichen. We head south to Freiburg im Breisgau to see the
university‟s botanic gardens, in particular the conifer collection.
On the way we stop in a gorge for coffee with thick bread and even thicker salami.
We walk back onto the viaduct and look down over beautiful undulating forest in so many
shades of green. As we descend towards Freiburg streams of camper vans and cars come
towards us up the steep hill. In Freiburg we cruise the streets near the university and
immediately get online then park in an avenue of young limes, where a nuthatch appears on a
trunk a few feet away.
The university‟s botanic gardens are easy to find and John greets the trees there like
old friends. The most memorable are a huge Turkey oak, an American oak, picea, cedrus
28
deodara, and abies. There are fabulous groups of dawn redwoods and swamp cypress, alpine
plants, and several different dwarf pines. John asks two men collecting tadpoles from a pond
what the principal tree of the Black Forest is. They say it‟s picea.
We find a hospitable car park in the middle of town, and I cook up my latest cheap
concoction: new potatoes from a jar sautéed with red pepper, onion and garlic, with a can of
Erbseneintopf (50p) which doesn‟t look anything like the picture on the can, but turns out to
be heavy pea soup with bacon. I‟m in the back when John announces the arrival of a very
eccentric camper van: an ancient Mercedes, khaki, brown and silver, driven by a woman with
bright red hair, with a younger woman in the passenger seat. She backs, drives forward,
backs again and rams a tree, then they get out and walk off. She drives with such conviction!
Such a contrast to most others who go from one parking spot to another, unable to make a
decision.
Then we exchange places and John falls asleep in the back. I‟m in a little bubble with
the glow from the laptop, looking out at the dark university buildings, the cars in the car park,
and the beautiful old trees above. The two women return to their camper and drive off.
Central Freiburg has tree lined avenues and underground car parks. There are nuns,
and many homeless men. We buy the English papers at the railway station: the Times, Daily
Telegraph, and the Spectator, which keeps John amused for hours, especially a snobby article
about how the cash strapped middle classes have taken to shopping at Aldi and LIDL, the
budget supermarkets.
The huge Munster cathedral, built in the 13th century using dark pink local stone, was
partly destroyed in WW2, but is now restored. It stands in a picturesque square of houses
from various periods. We really enjoy Freiburg and can‟t believe that we‟re virtually on the
French border.
Curry on Constance
We leave town the same way we arrived, back up the hairpin bends, with John going
on about the g-force, and the gear sliding around in the back. The forest is picea, Scots pine
and larch with hazelnuts beside the road, and we see buzzards and a couple of kites. We pass
a field of ploughed red soil and one of freshly mown grass. I‟m desperate to wash my hair
and since both swimming pools we‟ve stopped at have been closed, it‟s time to improvise.
We use a rest area picnic table, John pouring cold water over my hair while I do the shampoo.
Bliss.
At Lake Constance, we try to find access to the lakeside so we can have a swim and
stay the night, down ever narrowing country roads, along an avenue of walnuts, past a superb
little hedge of identical conifers, and a tractor with a smiling farmer, all so picturesque. The
conifers in people‟s gardens are flawless due to the perfect growing conditions.
29
An unpromising narrow road leads to a car park, a large grassy area and a fabulous
beach. People are swimming, sunbathing and reading. You can walk out into the lake on a
long concrete path with a handrail, or on the pebbly lake bottom. We have a swim and it‟s
cold but lovely. Two big swans approach from a starboard direction at top speed and a few
ducks and moorhens swim by. We can‟t believe our luck in finding such an idyllic spot. We
carry our dinner down to a park bench and John cooks a curry.
People come and go having swims and getting changed discreetly on the foreshore.
They seem like locals and it‟s all very laid back. Our van in the car park is backed up against
an overgrown hedge of field maple, hazel, hawthorn and ivy. At night it‟s completely dark
and there‟s not a soul around.
Next day we drive from our park at Litzelstetten to Mainau, a huge garden dating
from the 1870s, on an island that you reach via a causeway. At the turn off there‟s a traffic
island covered in tall wildflowers with poppies including the blue Mecanopsis. As we arrive
at the gardens busloads of people pour in. I read that it‟s the most visited garden in Europe.
Our introduction to the garden is an avenue of eighty enormous dawn redwoods. We
walk down the avenue and find a gardener who‟s happy to answer questions. He tells us
there are thirty five gardeners, plus ten extra in the summer. Pollution and dry weather cause
problems for the trees. Later I ask the same gardener about the birds of prey in the area and
he writes down the names: Bussard (buzzard), Turmfalke (kestrel), Wanderfalke (peregrine
falcon), and Habicht (goshawk).
The setting of the Mainau garden is superb. It‟s virtually surrounded by the lake,
which means there are beautiful vistas with glassy water in the background. Seats have been
placed in peaceful spots where you can rest and relax. We sit down to read and have a picnic.
The middle of the island is an arboretum of old rare trees, and the perimeter has vast borders
and collections of plants including a couple of acres of stunning dahlias in flower. They use
standards of many different plants. Our favourite is the lantana. We visit the castle, play
areas for children, farm animals, a model railway set among alpine plants, fountains, and a
huge butterfly house. Everything is in the most perfect condition, with huge attention to
detail. Even the cafes have pots of flowers on the tables.
Exhausted after a fabulous day in the sun we head back to our lakeside spot, lie on the
grass, have a swim, and read. John cooks a Chinese meal for dinner. Later we strike up a
conversation with an interesting couple. He‟s Canadian and she‟s German and they live in
the city of Konstanz a couple of miles away. They have lived in both countries, and recently
returned to Germany. They tell us about the local area and he tells a story of seeing a bird of
prey chasing a flock of sparrows in a field of sunflowers. He also says he knows the spot
where Herman Hesse sat and watched the River Rhine flow, as described in his novel
“Siddharta”. They say they will return for a swim the following night, but we leave the next
morning as it‟s raining.
30
We head up the northern shore of Lake Constance, looking back across to where we
parked for the two nights, and to Mainau. We see a stork by a creek, and a huge pink church
surrounded by grapevines. The whole area slopes to the south and it‟s covered with
vineyards, hops, and apple and peach orchards. Wildflowers are in abundance on the
roadside, pink on one side, yellow on the other. We stop at Meersburg a beautiful town right
on the lake. Further along there are pretty cows, darker than Jerseys, some with cowbells.
We‟re now in Bavaria, very close to Austria. We find a huge hardware store and spend a
long time there, finding the odds and ends we‟ve been looking for. It‟s hard to keep John out
of these places whichever country we‟re in.
We pass massive farmhouses attached to even larger barns, some with cows poking
their heads out the windows. The grass is extremely thick and green and the smell of cow
manure is all pervasive. They spray it on the pasture. Fences are replaced with ditches, and
the gardens have big sunflowers. We drive through miles of forest with hairpin bends, and in
the distance there are jagged mountains but no snow. Ski lifts are everywhere. John‟s
wearing a t shirt with VINTAGE across the front, and I take his picture next to the signpost to
Wank.
We stop for the night at Buhl near Grosser Alpsee. I make potato dumplings from a
packet mix and they‟re perfect. John eats six! There are another couple of camper vans and
a middle aged couple emerges from one, dressed in evening wear, and they walk along the
path to the village. We hear singing and wonder if it‟s a church choir.
Silage and Sauerkraut
We head towards Sonthofen with five layers of scenery backed up in front of us –
hills behind more hills behind more hills. We see our first braided river on this trip. The
rivers are very clean in Germany. An election is coming up and someone has drawn a Hitler
moustache on a candidate‟s poster. We drive down an avenue of young silver birch. Solar
panels are everywhere including on farm buildings and a large sawmill. This seems to be
palomino horse country.
Eventually we arrive in Fussen and discover that there‟s no laundrette for miles. But
on a mountain surrounded by forest we see the two magical castles that make this area such a
tourist magnet: Hohenschwangau and Neuschwanstein. We need a quiet night before we face
the crowds of tourists, so we find a secluded car park in the forest right by the lake Bannwald
See, and have a quick swim. Two very large birds with a distinct seagull appearance are
circling above. They have very white underbellies and are unlike any of the birds of prey that
I‟m familiar with. The book tells us that they‟re ospreys.
We take our dinner down to the lake where it‟s peaceful, but suddenly it gets darker
and the sky is black. We rush back to the van and get everything inside before a huge
31
thunderstorm hits. It lasts a couple of hours. We‟re safe and dry for the night under a large
maple tree in the forest.
Next morning we get up early to arrive at the two castles before the legendary crowds.
First we visit Schloss Hohenschwangau (Castle of the High Swan Country) which was built
in the 1830s. We‟re guided around in a group and we each have a gadget like a mobile phone
which gives a commentary in our own language. Apart from the spectacular setting of this
castle, on a forest clad hill at the foot of steep mountains, the best thing about it is the wall
paintings depicting romantic scenes from German sagas. Painted in egg tempera directly
onto the walls, the colours are wonderfully rich. We can see the other castle through the
leadlight windows, perched beneath high rocky crags.
We walk up to Schloss Neuschwanstein (New Swanstone Castle), through silver
beech forest. It has the distinction of being the most photographed building in Germany, one
of the most popular tourist attractions, and the inspiration for the Sleeping Beauty Castles at
Disneylands around the world. It really is the archetypal fairytale castle, in pale grey stone,
all towers, turrets, gables and balconies, with rows of tiny windows. Like Schloss
Hohenschwangau, it was built as a fantasy castle.
The views from the windows down to farmland, Schwansee (Swan Lake), forest and
the other castle are spectacular. The interior features paintings directly onto the walls of
Prince Ludwig‟s favourite opera “Tristan and Isolde”, by Richard Wagner, and there is a
huge grotto, as well as an area for concerts. I ask the guide whether Ludwig‟s life was as
operatic as the castle and she says that he suffered from a chronic illness, and took morphine,
and created the castle as an escape from the real world. We hear an American woman say
“It‟s just like Disneyland you come out of the castle and the shop‟s right here.”
Swifts go crazy overhead as we walk up to the Marienbrucke Bridge high above a
series of waterfalls where the water cascades from one huge pool to the next, surrounded by
sheer cliff faces and forested mountains. We head back down through the forest on a track
where you can ride in a coach pulled by a pair of part draught horses, and in the winter a
horse drawn sleigh.
Then we set out on the Romantic Road north through brilliant green fields with small
dairy herds, where solar panels stretch for several acres at a time. Buzzards are standing in
fields and I spot a very elegant bird of prey with curved wings which I work out is a
peregrine falcon. By now we‟re desperate for a laundrette so I phone ahead to the Augsburg
Visitors Centre. Yes they have a laundrette and it‟s right near where we were intending to
park for the night, by the canal. Church bells ring at six o‟clock and the dogs start barking. I
lie in bed and read The Spectator. There‟s been a contest to write poetry or prose in the style
of a famous writer. Some brilliant entries are published including one in the style of Chaucer
describing Amy Winehouse as a “wylde wyf”. Reading takes on a new intensity when you‟re
away from your own language for a long time.
32
We‟re up early the next morning and do three loads of washing. Much to my
amazement a very old lady in the laundrette tells me that she used to have a New Zealand
social worker. Next door, outside a large church, there‟s a WW1 and WW2 memorial, the
first one we‟ve seen in Germany. After exchanging texts with Kerry, a friend visiting Paris,
and hearing that an Irish bar there is showing the All Blacks versus Wallabies rugby game, I
call the Visitors Centre and ask if there‟s an Irish bar in town. I get the directions to one
called Murphy‟s Law. When the washing is done we rush there on foot, arguing over the
map on street corners. Eventually we find it shortly after kick off time. True to its name the
bar is closed. Back in the van we cruise the streets, get online, John finds New Zealand
Radio Sport, and we catch the last half of the game. Victory to the All Blacks!
On a mission to get to the Czech Republic we keep moving, off to the east across a
wide hop growing area on a long stretch of motorway through beautiful forest, very fast and
easy, stopping in the little town of Nabburg to buy diesel. It has steep narrow streets similar
to hilltop towns in Tuscany. On top of a tall church steeple we see a stork‟s nest. A van and
a lorry from Romania pass us.
Our stop for the night is at Waidhaus, just before the Czech border. Following signs
through the village for a camper van park we end up in a farmer‟s field, and pay five Euros
for the night to an old crone in a headscarf who could be straight from the Brothers Grimm.
It‟s a welcome change to be able to cook with the side door of the van wide open. An
admiring circle of animals turns up: a little black dog like a fox, two cats and a kitten. It‟s
peasant food for dinner: fagioli bean stew with bacon and vegetables, plus sauerkraut.
There‟s a strong smell of silage. A few yards from the van there‟s a slim tree trunk
embedded in the ground with various symbolic objects hanging from it and a few small
branches sticking out of the top. It‟s a mystery to us but it adds to the fairy tale atmosphere.
Tomorrow we‟ll be in Prague, notwithstanding the impenetrable lingo. The
phrasebook tells us how to say “I‟m from New Zealand”, and, from the border crossing
section, “That‟s not mine”, presumably that‟s for when they find the drugs in your vehicle.
When we wake up at Waidhaus and head to the Czech border it‟s six degrees. The
Czech Republic joined the E U in 2004, and the lanes and empty booths at the border look
like they pre-date this. There are no border guards and all we need to do is to buy a vignette
to give us a week‟s use of the Czech motorway system. We spot a sign advertising a
restaurant with showers so we check it out. You have to go to the bar and pay for the key to
the shower, but it‟s occupied, so we have a coffee while we wait. Eventually the sullen bar
staff beckon us over and we pay our four Euros for two showers. We unlock the door to the
shower room in front of a passing group of amused Asian tourists. We‟re not really prepared
for the sight that greets us once inside: slime, mould, and filth. We grit our teeth and cross
our fingers, trusting our immune systems to look after us as we get under that glorious hot
water.
33
The countryside over the border is flat and featureless, with huge farms on depleted
looking soil. Some of the conifers in the forests have damage from acid rain. We see
massive logistics centres, many of them new, where lorries unload and fill up with goods.
The usual kestrels and buzzards are overhead, and there are abandoned factories, and
concrete rubble in fields.
On the outskirts of Prague we stop at a shopping centre and buy a map of the city,
then manage to navigate our way to the suburb of Stodhulky with its forest of tall apartment
blocks, metro station, bakery, three enormous supermarkets, and resident kestrel. It‟s Sunday
evening so there are spaces in the car parks. We find a good spot for the van, and since it‟s
raining, we get into bed and read.
Next morning it‟s cold and rainy so it‟s merino tops, socks, coats and scarves. On the
metro into the centre of Prague the young women clutch large tacky handbags and read
celebrity gossip magazines just like you‟d see anywhere. The metro system is a Soviet one,
very fancy and cheap, and we discover that the trams likewise are modern and inexpensive.
In the old city we walk around in the rain and admire the beautiful architecture. We find the
Hare Krishna restaurant and have a lovely curry lunch, then an internet cafe to do emails and
read the English papers. Luxury. We pass a travel agency advertising a cruise which stops
off at Dunedin, our home town!
In the main square we line up with the other tourists to watch the Gothic astronomical
clock on the Old Town Hall, where on the hour a skeleton pulls a cord to ring the bells, while
the Apostles revolve at the top. With that out of the way we can relax!
Elegant horses with immaculate carriages wait in the square for customers, the drivers
wearing long Grim Reaper cloaks. The horses‟ shoes have heavy elevated heels, I guess to
stop them slipping on the cobblestones. An Asian couple are getting married, the bride in six
inch white high heels with socks, black thermals, a white bouquet, and a white fur. The
police are there with a sign saying “Your dog can have a drink here”. There are quite a few
homeless people with their gear in wheeled suitcases, and we see a couple of men eating food
out of rubbish bins.
We head home to Stodhulky, hoping for a cheap meal in the local bar, but there‟s no
food tonight, just men watching the footy on tele. The grumpy barman doesn‟t seem to
appreciate me ordering the beers, or my lack of the lingo, or something. We go for a walk,
and discover a German Kaufland supermarket nearby with a tiny caravan in the carpark
selling mulled wine, and inside sardinky, ryslink (Riesling), chipsy, musli, chokolady and
limonady. Then we walk across some rough ground to the gargantuan (and empty) Tesco,
past lots of very fat and confident rats. John even gets a photo of one. We head back to the
van via a Chinese takeaway.
34
Next morning it‟s colder so we put on woollen scarves and thick woollen socks. We
walk around the enormous Prague castle complex, full of grandeur and tourists. St Vitus
Cathedral, which is the centrepiece, is very similar to Westminster Palace. We‟re freezing
and hungry, so we go to the restaurant and have an overpriced sausage lunch, where each
sausage is cut into a curling doglike shape. They‟re delicious. Warm and revived, we head
off to see the changing of the guard. The soldiers are wearing pale blue uniforms, and one
gets the giggles.
Walking down the steep hill back to the river, we pass terraces of grapevines. At the
Wallenstein Palace (the parliament building) the garden has a fake stalactite grotto with
grotesque faces hidden in it. We spend a long time looking at an exhibition of photographs of
past troubles, including demonstrations, and the Russian tanks in 1968. It‟s so recent, we‟ve
seen these things on television, and it hits us hard.
Unlike some other beautiful Eastern European cities, the buildings and streetscapes of
Prague were virtually untouched by WW2. Tiny old houses and shops peer out from the
skirts of their huge neighbours, and ancient squares are surrounded by centuries old churches,
theatres, museums and government buildings. There‟s a lot of embellishment with friezes,
little sculptures, and paintings adorning the exteriors of ancient buildings. Shop windows are
full of Bohemian glass, Czech garnets, amber, and blue and white pottery. It‟s a consumer
society with many malls and shops, but I notice that in the supermarkets people buy the
basics: meat and vegetables. So the art of cooking is still alive.
We find the Czech people attractive, with high cheekbones and fine features. The
young couples we see are very demonstrative with each other. After months of being
strangers in strange lands, we bump into two women we know from back home in Dunedin.
We pick up some brochures of guided walks and decide to do the Communist Walk
the next day. The brochure says that the guides are older men who have lived through all the
upheavals of the last seventy years. We go to bed with a high sense of expectation.
The Four Jans
We add thick jumpers and gloves to our layers on day three and meet Jan our guide
near the Jan Hus monument in the Old Town Square. It‟s just the three of us. He tells us that
he loves doing these tours because for over forty years under Communist rule he was unable
to meet anyone from the outside world, and he takes great pleasure in talking to foreigners
now. (Things have changed so much: his six year old granddaughter has already been skiing
in France three times.) He was born in 1941, and blows us away with a photo of himself
sitting on his father‟s knee surrounded by Russian soldiers, on a Russian tank, when Prague
was liberated in 1945.
35
Jan tells us about Czech and Prague history over the centuries and shows us various
places of significance like the monument to Jan Hus, an early anti Catholic religious reformer
pre-dating Martin Luther.
Then he talks about 1938 and beyond, how the Brits and French agreed to let
Germany take some of the Czech Republic, then the Germans invaded, and they were
occupied. He points out that in the photo he looks well dressed and well fed, and that the
Czech people didn‟t suffer too badly in that way during the occupation. After the war ended,
there was a strong Communist party, and the other political figures couldn‟t agree, so the
Communists were voted in. They became a totalitarian regime, and the Czech economy went
from being one of the strongest in Europe, to a disaster. Under Communism people were sent
to prisons inside the Czech Republic if they protested, and many university people and
intellectuals were killed or imprisoned.
Jan‟s father was an accountant in the Agriculture Department at the time and his
mother‟s family had their farms confiscated and collectivised. He describes many situations
in recent Czech history as being paradoxical, and I think he means ironic as well. For
example, the French supported Germany taking some of the Czech Republic in 1938, but then
they were subsequently occupied themselves.
Jan has a wonderful sense of humour and a great way with English. He answers all
our questions very seriously, and manages to convey the complexity of many situations as
well.
The Czech people were very grateful to be liberated by the Russians in 1945 but felt
quite differently when the Russian tanks came in 1968. He shows us where the students had
a standoff with the police in the first demonstration in November 1989, known as the masakr,
when many were hospitalised but no-one died. Jan and his wife were at the demonstrations
that escalated during the week of 17 November 1989. He takes great pride in the lack of
violence, and quotes from Vaclav Havel‟s speech telling the police where their priorities
should lie. We see the memorials to Jan Palach and Jan Zijic, young men who set themselves
on fire in 1969 in Wenceslas Square. The square is at the heart of the Czech people‟s sense
of themselves as a nation. He tells us it‟s like a barometer of how things are. On the day
we‟re there, teenagers are hanging around taking photos of each other. What could be more
normal than that? When the Russian tanks came in 1968 in the early hours of the morning,
protest posters were hung all around the square. They were destroyed by the Russian soldiers
but not before photographers had recorded them.
Wenceslas Square is a long wide avenue similar to the Champs Elysees, with a statue
of St Wenceslas on a horse, outside the National Museum. Today there‟s also a Russian tank
on display, left over from an exhibition for the 40th anniversary of the 1968 invasion. Jan
tells us that he did his compulsory military training in the early 1960s, and he was a tank
technician, so he knows all about its specifications.
36
He tells us that he had some Kiwi farmers on a tour once, and they told him they had
Czech tractors. John tells him he used to drive an old Skoda in New Zealand and he loves
that. He says his brother in law still has one from the 1960s which he maintains himself.
Czechs are very good at fixing things, and we tell him that Kiwis are too.
Apparently the Czech language and Russian are eighty per cent the same. When the
Russians invaded in 1968, Jan‟s Russian workmates wept. They preferred living in the Czech
Republic to life in the Soviet Union. We ask about the Czech Republic‟s relationship with
other European countries. They aren‟t keen on Austria and Hungary, but like Slovakia,
Poland and Germany, especially the Euros from the German tourists. He confirms our
observation that the country is highly industrialised, and tells us that they manufacture cars
and trams.
The tour takes two hours and fifteen minutes and at the end we‟re absolutely
exhausted. We take our photos with Jan and sadly bid him farewell. He has such a lovely
smile and such a sense of pride in his country, yet such a deep concern and awareness of
where things have gone wrong in the past.
We find a cafe nearby where I have beautiful thick lentil and bean soup, while John
has an undrinkable high viscosity black coffee. Then we high tail it back to the van and crash
for the night.
Pepr
On our fourth day in Prague the sun comes out. We explore an antique shop and
amongst the Nazi matches, Russian helmets, old postcards, photos, dolls and enamel
cookware I find a little old lidded china pot labelled PEPR. We‟re looking for some braces
for John because he‟s finding it hard to keep his trousers up. We catch the funicular railway
up Petrin Hill. When it was opened in 1891 there were two carriages fitted with water tanks,
and these were alternately filled at the top and emptied at the bottom. The Czechs had the
technical knowhow even then. We visit the Strahovsky Klaster high up on the hill, a
monastery founded in 1146 with one of the finest libraries in Bohemia. It functioned until
shortly after the Communists came to power, when it was closed and most of the people there
imprisoned. The monks returned after 1989.
The monastery is huge but we just visit the two small libraries, starting with the
Philosophical Hall built in the 1780s and holding forty two thousand books on philosophy
and science. It has walnut bookcases, ten rows of shelves, then a mezzanine with six more
rows. The narrow mezzanine walkway is reached via secret corner spiral staircases. There‟s
a ceiling painting called “The Struggle of Mankind to Know Real Wisdom”, so not a lot has
changed. We‟re only able to peer through the doorway and “ooh” and “aah” at this most
magical of libraries. Next door is the Theological Hall, the same size, with ceiling frescoes
surrounded by ornate white plaster, much lighter, and containing only Bibles. In the lobby is
37
the library‟s oldest book, the “Strahov Evangelistary” from the 9th century, its cover
decorated with jewels, little Biblical figures, and enamel ornaments. The most curious
exhibit is a collection of rare books about trees, each one bound in the bark of the tree it
describes, some of the covers fuzzy with lichen.
On our last day in Prague the sun shines again. We decide to visit Vysehrad, a
fortress on a hill in one of the suburbs, very old and full of history. We walk around the brick
ramparts with fantastic views of the city, down over the river and the bridges, and towards
forests of high apartment blocks on the skyline. Huge chestnut trees are shedding chestnuts,
the leaves are changing colour, and we see a bright red squirrel. We visit the Vysehad Slavin
cemetery where many of the most distinguished Czech writers, composers, artists and
scientists are buried. Each headstone is unique, many made by famous sculptors, with a
singular lack of angels or sentimentality. We recognise the names of Dvorak and Smetana.
We take a walk across the famous Charles Bridge which was built in the 1300s. It‟s
made of stone of course, and very beautiful with many arches underneath, and thirty statues
from around 1700. It‟s packed with tourists, and we look out over the Vtlava River which
has islands, tourist boats and the odd barge. We decide that we‟ve seen as much of Prague as
we have time for even though we‟ve only scratched the surface and there‟s always so much
more to see. The Communist Walk with Jan was the highlight. We felt a connection with
him and began to understand his life.
Living in the car park we‟re able to observe the lives of ordinary Prague people. They
seem to be happy and busy, the children look really well cared for, and many people smoke.
Even though people don‟t look poor, we‟ve seen several people going through the huge
rubbish bins in the car park, pulling out bags of flour and other food. Capitalism is in full
swing with cars, factories, huge industrial parks and malls. The beer is fantastic, alcohol is
very cheap, and unemployment is only five per cent. People who have helped us have been
very kind and tuned in, and some know a little English. Czech is a melodious language but
unfortunately we only manage to squeak out a few words ourselves.
We leave our cosy parking spot next morning and visit two supermarkets to stock up
on the essentials: Fisherman‟s Friend cough drops, chocolate, sardines, red peppers, onions,
big salamis, beer, wine, dumpling mix, and olives. I‟m hoping to boost our immunity by
putting onions, garlic and red peppers in most meals. One supermarket has a litre of milk for
eight kroner, twenty five pence in the UK or sixty cents in New Zealand. Amazing since we
haven‟t seen a single dairy cow, whereas you see nothing else in New Zealand and milk costs
four times as much.
We exit Prague on the motorway which is challenging, with a spaghetti maze of
options. Just before Ricany a bird of prey is directly overhead, and, completely baffled as to
what it is, I long for a few hours with a bird expert.
38
On the edge of a field we see two deer. The roads are lined with old apple trees, and
there is sugar beet by the mile. The roads are rough and the towns plain, no dazzling flower
gardens like in Germany. We‟re on our way to Kutna Hora, a UNESCO World Heritage site
with a famous cathedral, an ossuary with the bones of forty thousand plague victims, and the
largest cigarette factory in Europe.
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Chapter 4 Czech Republic, Germany
20 September - 6 October
The Enemy of Observation
In a month old copy of the London Times I read a review of Paul Theroux‟s latest
book “Ghost Train to the Eastern Star” and I‟m impressed by these words quoted by the
reviewer: “luxury is the enemy of observation”. I would also say luxury is relative.
After living in a car park for six nights in Prague, we‟re ecstatic to upgrade to the
Santa Barbara Camp in Kutna Hora. We arrive in the early afternoon and I immediately put
on loads of washing, while John strings up some clotheslines. We have the camp to
ourselves: about an acre of grass and large trees with very basic facilities. There is such
liberation in opening the van doors and spreading everything out, after keeping a low profile
and trying not to attract attention in public car parks. I commandeer a small table in the
men‟s toilets, plug the laptop into the power, and type three emails on Word. John brings me
a glass of wine, and bread with dip. Not the most convivial of surroundings but I‟m not
complaining. He works on the rust in the van, and cooks a pork curry for dinner. The camp
manager comes for a chat and tells us that he had a New Zealand pen friend for years whose
husband was a coalminer in Ohai.
Next morning the washing is almost dry, and John sets the van up as a drier with the
heater on full, the clothes spread out inside, and the doors open wide. It‟s finished off in no
time.
Kutna Hora‟s heyday was from the 14th to the 16th centuries, when its wealth was
generated from silver mining. The old town is intact, with delights such as a 15th century
intricately patterned dodecagonal sandstone water reservoir. Our favourite is the Cathedral of
St Barbara, who is the patron saint of miners. It has crazy, pointed, tent like towers, and
inside, frescoes of Italian minters crafting the silver coins which were European currency
until the 19th century.
The most bizarre sight is the Sedlec Ossuary which has an intriguing history. In 1278
the abbot of Sedlec was sent on a diplomatic mission to the Holy Land, bringing back a
handful of earth from Golgotha (the biblical name for the place where Jesus was crucified),
which he scattered in the Sedlec monastery cemetery. It quickly became a popular place for
wealthy people from Central Europe to be buried. It was enlarged during the 14th century to
take the bodies of people who died from the plague, and in 1318 thirty thousand people were
buried there. In the 15th century All Saints Church was built with a chapel underneath. It
was here a century later that a half blind Cistercian monk arranged the bones removed from
the graves. From 1870 a wood carver arranged the bones as they are now displayed, in bell
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shaped pyramids, chandeliers, and adorning the architectural features of the interior of the
church. Many are arranged in the classic skull and crossbones design, and there are strings of
skulls hung like Christmas streamers. It‟s all very strange, and there are busloads of Polish
tourists having a look. The Philip Morris cigarette factory next door is a sick joke.
Navigation Error
We find John some braces in a market, then head north past the massive Chvaletice
coal fired power station, and a huge Panasonic factory. People are selling what looks like
wine in plastic soft drink bottles by the roadside, and the roads are lined with laden apple
trees. We see a seagull chasing a crow and a kestrel as we drive along the Elbe River, where
there are no fences or farm animals for miles, and avenues of poplars beside picturesque
apple orchards. There are many old Skodas, massive abandoned factories, and vast apartment
complexes. As we head towards the Adrspach Spaly near the Polish border, my navigation
skills desert me and for about an hour I can‟t find our location on the map. The town of
Nachod features on sign posts but I can‟t find it. I curse the map for being so poor and we
press on, but it slowly dawns on me that we‟ve taken a wrong turning. I haven‟t looked at the
compass on the windscreen for a long time and we‟ve travelled east instead of north. Then I
find Nachod in a place on the map where I haven‟t looked before. It‟s late in the day and
we‟re heading into the mountains, not what we wanted.
The little mountain style houses have huge piles of firewood, snow catchers on the
roofs and smoke rising from their chimneys. The farms are reminiscent of the ones in the
Black Forest but the cows are white and the soil pink. It‟s a relief to stop at Batnovice in a
quiet car park for the night.
Next day as we head north we could be in a Welsh mining valley. Villages appear out
of the forest, some with grand old public buildings. The deciduous trees are starting to
change colour, before they give way to conifers. A green pipeline has followed us for miles
and we wonder what it carries. There‟s always industry, abandoned and functioning
factories, astonishing to us in an area which feels remote. The severity of the winters is
apparent when we see double glazed windows in old houses with a foot between the two
layers of glass. Ducks are on the river and swifts go crazy in the sky. A man cycles past
towing a gas bottle. Then we see a ski lift, big flower gardens, wooden houses with
geraniums on the balconies, silver birch, larch and picea. It‟s misty and a good wind is
blowing. The moss and grass are beautiful. There‟s selective logging in the forest, never
clear felling. We feel like Asian tourists in New Zealand, screeching to a halt to take photos,
gobsmacked by the stunning scenery.
When we see ravens circling towering stone pinnacles we know we‟re at Adrspach
Spaly. We‟re the first into the car park but later it fills with Polish and German buses and
cars.
41
We spend two hours walking through the sandstone rock formations which are
adorned with slim conifers, small deciduous trees with yellowing leaves, grass and moss. It‟s
a ravishingly beautiful and peaceful landscape, the stuff of 1970s posters. The tallest of the
pinnacles is three hundred feet high, and they‟re popular with rock climbers who secure their
routes with fixed metal rings. We climb a wooden staircase to reach a wedge shaped gap
between rock walls where there‟s a skinny lake. Two men sit beside a roaring coal fire in a
small hut, like characters from a fairy tale or myth. They pole little boats full of tourists from
the tiny wharf along a lake.
Everything here has a soft fuzzy outline, from the moulded grey lines of the pinnacles,
through the fuzzy foliage of the trees, to the moss on the rocks, and the sandy soil.
At the end of the walk there‟s a miniscule outdoor chapel in the rock, a memorial to
fifty of the Czech Republic‟s best climbers. We think they must revere this place.
As we leave and drive to Treplice, another popular tourist spot with its own similar
rocks, we see some deer at the edge of a field. While we‟re having lunch a black squirrel
walks round the van. I‟m also very excited to see what looks like a black redstart, a small
black bird resembling a robin with a red tail, the first I‟ve seen. In the post office, the woman
behind the counter has fake nails, alternating pale blue and pink. Czech women seem to have
embraced the commercial aspects of beauty to a marked degree, with beauty parlours and
tanning salons everywhere.
We just revel in being in the country again after the big city tourist experience. Berlin
is coming up and we decide to plan it better than we planned Prague, which was not at all.
We read up the guide book and work out which sights we really want to see. Unfortunately it
always seems to be a process of elimination in the end, deciding what not to visit.
Bohemian Rhapsody
We head west, parallel to the Polish border, through more mountain towns. Some of
the houses are constructed of logs split in half lying one on top of the other, caulked with
rope and plaster. There are lovely gardens, apple trees, and factories with brick chimneys, a
legacy of the industrial past. We spend a night in Trutnov which has a large town square that
could be straight out of Italy or Spain. We realise that we haven‟t seen any idle youth in the
Czech Republic.
From Trutnov it‟s west again through forests and farms, the road lined with old forest
maples with red, orange and yellow leaves; then down an avenue of green trees which meet
over the road. The gardens are rustic and rambling with asters and dahlias amongst the
vegetables. Beautiful brightly coloured houses line the road, and ski fields are hidden up side
roads. We see our first onion domed churches then drive under a line of buckets suspended
on cables, shown on the map as running for several miles. It must take coal from the mine to
42
a power station. Advertisements for adventure sports flash past, along with people selling
sacks of onions, apples and potatoes beside the road. It‟s the first sunny day for a while and
the jays are busy everywhere. We drive through a wide forested valley then it narrows along
the Jizera River with its brown peaty water. This land has been fought over for centuries and
the place names are in Polish as well as Czech. The roofs of the houses are made from a kind
of bitumen material, and lots of people are doing renovations. There are massive woodpiles
and the window boxes are full of begonias and geraniums. The mysterious green pipeline is
still following us.
We cross the border into Germany at the point where Poland, the Czech Republic and
Gemany meet, and with the huge history these countries share it feels momentous.
In Zittau it‟s strange to be guten Tagging again, and we experience a couple of days
of linguistic confusion. We discover a large fenced off parking area for camper vans, with
one already there, and, strangely a small herd of goats in a corner. We don‟t bother too much
with signs and rules, just park by a picnic table and have a brilliant few hours of cooking
outside, and lighting the Kelly kettle, with not a care in the world. Getting up late next
morning, John bursts out the side door of the van right into the arms of a council official who
is unamused at our lack of a parking sticker. He takes John to the machine and oversees the
purchase of one for seven Euros. Damn. If only we‟d been up half an hour earlier.
Zittau turns out to have many fascinating sights including a grand municipal
swimming pool complete with columns, built in 1873, which for a time served as a women‟s
prison, particularly for women accused of the crime of rumour mongering! We find a very
welcoming cafe with wifi and send lots of photos and talk on skype to people back home.
The unique thing to see in Zittau is the Lenten Veil, compared with the Bayeux
Tapestry, and housed in the 14th century Church of the Holy Cross Museum. The staff are
very conscientious, including Rowan Atkinson‟s doppelganger who shows us around. The
Lenten Veil was made in 1472, tempera painted on linen, about twenty by twenty five feet, a
veil to cover the choir of the church during Lent, to make the mystery physical as well as
metaphorical. It‟s made up of nine squares across and ten down, with a wide border. Forty
five of the squares illustrate stories from the Old Testament, and forty five from the New
Testament, like a gigantic comic strip. Its history is intriguing. At one point when there was
a fire it was rescued by the town‟s librarian, then in WW2 it was taken to a monastery on Mt
Oybin for safety, by POWs including a Brit called Ernest Hall, only to be used by Russian
soldiers as a curtain for their sauna in the forest. It was restored in Switzerland in the 1990s
and its beauty is striking in spite of fading and blank patches. To stand before such an
ancient textile is quite breathtaking.
We head north through stunning towns of substantial timbered houses, many of which
have tiles in beautiful patterns covering the top of the exterior walls. It‟s rolling unfenced
country of ploughed fields, apple trees and good looking soil. As we get onto the motorway
43
north towards Berlin we wonder if we‟ll make it to Spreewald for the night. We pass a
massive BASF factory covering hundreds of acres then a major distribution centre for Netto
supermarkets. Making good progress we‟re nearly at the turnoff to Lubbenau in the early
evening, when a Polizei van overtakes us in the slow lane, then changes lanes into the middle.
The outside lane finishes so we change lanes into the middle as well after goggling at the
police car, and, I must admit, taking a sneaky photo. Then we‟re shocked to see a message
flash up on the back of their van saying “Please follow” in German! So we follow them to
the shoulder where we both stop. Having seen a few American movies and knowing the form
in New Zealand we both jump down from the cab but they order us back into the van and ask
to see our passports and John‟s license. After scrutinising these they ask us to open the back
of the van so they can have a look. It all seems quite routine until the one in charge says we
have to pay some money. They say that they can‟t speak English but they seem to understand
a lot of what we say. In the back of their van there‟s an office with a table, chairs, computer
and printer, and John is ushered in there while the other cop stays with the van. I get in the
back of the police van as well and we‟re shown the road code and lots of motioning of
blending with the traffic from one lane to the other. It turns out that we‟re charged with not
changing lanes quickly enough behind them, and the instant fine is thirty Euros. We pay up,
take the receipt, and get back into the van muttering, mystified at the crime and wondering
why they bothered. Thank goodness they didn‟t catch John taking a photo of them while
driving!
Fischadler
Exiting the motorway to Lubbenau we find a spot for the night right beside one of the
many waterways. Spreewald is a large marshy area with hundreds of little rivers, canals,
lakes, walking and cycle paths, and four million visitors a year. It‟s only an hour south of
Berlin on the train, and a World Biosphere Reserve. People travel on the water in old flat
bottomed punts which are poled along, while they eat and drink seated at tables with brightly
coloured tablecloths and flowers. Or you can hire a canoe and paddle yourself. It‟s all very
jolly.
Our first priority is the washing as the bedding hasn‟t been washed for a few weeks.
The visitors‟ centre tells us that there‟s a laundry in Cottbus half an hour away so we go
straight there next morning. Strangely it‟s in the railway station, Anita‟s Wasch Salon. The
woman running it, not Anita, is charming and very helpful. We put on a couple of loads and
she says she‟ll dry it for us. We go back to the van and John cooks a big lunch of sausages
and eggs. We discover that there‟s a wonderful park in Cottbus and decide to visit it later.
When we go to collect the washing it‟s all folded and we‟re so grateful. Anita the boss is
there and she is as charming as her worker who we give an extra five Euros and a tiny paua
shell.
Then we head to Branitz Park which is the former estate of Hermann von PucklerMuskau. He was an aristocrat who was born there in a small castle, and began landscaping
44
the property in 1846. It‟s in the landscape tradition of Capability Brown with trees and lakes
strategically placed to create beautiful vistas, some up to three hundred yards long, with
nothing left to chance. Many of the trees are planted on small mounds, some on their own
but many in groups - the trees of the British 18th century grand tradition: alder, oak, scarlet
oak, beech, copper beech, forest maple, Scots pine, swamp cypress and chestnut. The most
remarkable features are two grass covered earth pyramids. One is in a lake and covered with
grass and a low growing red leafed plant. It‟s the burial place for von Puckler-Muskau and
his wife. The trees are in perfect condition and it‟s a wonderful place to visit, with locals
walking and cycling through and lots of wildlife. We see a bright red squirrel, a beaver in the
lake, and a big raven circling and cawing.
Back in Spreewald we get lost a couple of times but eventually find a place to spend
the night. We can‟t find any car parks but there‟s a picnic table with a roof by the side of the
road, with enough room to park the van alongside. We spend a pleasant evening cooking
outside and boiling up as people cycle past. Next morning we go for a leisurely stroll along
the road then find ourselves on a cycle path which leads to a small lake. We walk most of the
way around the lake and can‟t believe our eyes when we see two ospreys circling, hovering,
then dropping into the water. They are Fischadler in German, birds of prey with a wingspan
of five feet which dive down from the sky and catch fish with their feet. There are also lots
of white whooper swans and cygnets, cormorants, ducks, white herons, a red kite, frogs,
butterflies and hornets.
After that we drive to the White Stork Information Centre, and while John works on
the van‟s rust in the car park of the building supplies shop over the road, I have a long session
with some bird experts finding out what birds are in the area. They hardly speak any English,
but we have a dictionary, and they have some great reference books. I mark my bird book
with the German names of the various birds of prey. Their centre works to improve the lot of
storks, which are endangered, mainly because they fly into transmission lines. They migrate
to Africa in August and return in March/April when they nest in the crazy messy nests up
poles that you see everywhere. Their eggs are about the size of hens‟ eggs.
We drive back into the country to a peaceful corner of a ploughed field under two
huge oak trees by a creek and John paints the parts of the van where he‟s sanded the rust, then
we lie in the sun and watch jet trails in the sky. With a soundtrack of loud squawking two
white swans fly overhead then land on the field in perfect unison. Then more arrive, and a
short while later they all fly away. The movement of birds is constant. The sun is
approaching the horizon so we drive a short distance down the road and park beside a lake
full of jumping fish, great crested grebes and white herons. There are swirling flocks of
roosting starlings as well. It‟s so peaceful.
We go to bed looking forward to waking up in the morning beside the lake, and
spending the day lounging around in the sun .... but it‟s not to be. Shortly after midnight we
hear a voice outside the van and lie there trying to figure out what‟s going on. It comes and
45
goes and there‟s a soft light moving around as well. Eventually it stops. We work out that
it‟s someone talking into their mobile phone. There‟s no car and we wonder if someone
walking or biking home saw the van, became suspicious, and called the police or one of the
farmers. We lie there for a while wondering what to do then decide it would be best to drive
the two miles to Raddusch, the closest village, and park there, rather than have to deal with
the police or whoever might come to investigate us. John has drunk some beer so I drive, in
my pyjamas, the only time I get behind the wheel in Europe. We find a place to park in a
street of houses, and the local dogs go berserk, barking like crazy. It‟s a bit of a worry. We
get into the back and lie low and they quieten down straight away so that‟s a relief.
After a restless night we get up early and drive to Lubbenau, parking in the railway
station car park for four Euros. We spend the day reading, John the latest Newsweek and
Herald Tribune and me Dickens‟ “Hard Times”. We walk into town and see people in punts,
lots of gherkins for sale (the local speciality), and have a beer, very pleasant.
3 Oktober Tag der Deutschen Einheit
We leave Lubbenau and head towards Berlin early on the Sunday morning, and it‟s
worth it as there‟s no traffic. There‟s heavy forest on both sides of the motorway for miles,
and we see a deer. Wind generators loom out of the fog and there are lots of Polish vehicles.
From the road atlas we‟ve worked out possible places to park for free close to the railway line
and a swimming pool, and it pays off as we end up at Lankwitz on the outskirts of Berlin to
the south, a fifteen minute train ride from the centre. It‟s a fabulous place to stay, safe and
easy, with a pool and shops and quiet leafy streets to park in when we need to move from the
market square for the weekly market. I get a haircut and the delightful hairdresser has a
typed sheet translating German-English hairdressing terms like “fringe” so we can discuss
what I want. The Germans are so organised. We spend one night in Steglitz the next suburb
because there‟s a laundrette there, and to our relief a fabulous outdoor and travel store called
Globetrotter where we stock up on our old fashioned little cylinders of cooking gas.
The day we arrive in Berlin, we catch the train into the city in the afternoon, and walk
smack bang into the finish of the Berlin Marathon, with the runners racing up the famous
avenue Unter den Linden, finishing at the Brandenburg Gate. It‟s a big thrill. Then we‟re
lucky to be still in town on 3 October which is the national holiday to celebrate the
reunification of Germany which happened nineteen years earlier, Tag der Deutschen Einheit.
That day there‟s a wonderful happy atmosphere with crowds of people our age celebrating
with music, food and drink.
We pretty much overdose on depressing history in Berlin, exhaust ourselves into the
bargain, and really only scratch the surface. We visit the Museum of German History which
covers the build up to WW2 in detail, but the main thing I remember is Napoleon‟s
handkerchief, yellowing linen and neatly folded. The Pergamon Museum has a mind
blowing array of antiquities, the meaning of which really sinks in when we visit Bergama in
46
Turkey three months later and see where some of the treasures came from. Our favourite
museum is Checkpoint Charlie on the site of the former border crossing between East and
West Berlin. It contains a huge amount of social history from the Cold War. There is every
imaginable form of escape and attempted escape on display including cars hollowed out to
hide people, two long surfboards between which a girl hid on a car roof rack, and digging
tools. So much bravery and ingenuity is documented in photos, film footage, personal items
and official papers. It gives a chilling picture of what life was like for people, and their
desperation.
A climb up the Siegessaule is a highlight. It‟s a triumphal column giving fantastic
views over the surrounding parks, and straight down to the Brandenburg Gate.
We enjoy the huge modern public buildings in the centre of Berlin. Glass is a major
feature, and their contemporary elegance provides a contrast to the traditional beauty of the
older buildings. The most arresting modern construction is the Memorial to the Murdered
Jews of Europe, two thousand, seven hundred and eleven concrete stelae or rectangular
shaped plinths of varying heights which form a kind of maze. They cover a large area, laid
out in a perfect grid pattern. On 3 October lots of people are there, particularly children
jumping from one column to another.
Leaving Berlin we drive out to Potsdam and on our way come across a Google Street
View car with cameras on the roof, photographing the street! How we love Google Earth and
Google Maps when we‟re planning our arrival in big cities.
Potsdam is very hospitable with a new railway station complete with cinemas,
supermarkets, bakeries, shops and English newspapers. We spend the night in the station car
park. We walk through the park and past the castle Schloss Cecilienhoff where Churchill,
Roosevelt and Stalin, then Attlee, Truman and Stalin, had the Potsdam Conference in
July/August 1945, which set up occupation zones, planned the punishment of war criminals,
and other vital components of how Germany was run for the next forty five years. The
tattered flags of the three countries are still visible through the window. After that we high
tail it to Poland, with a sense of excitement to be venturing into largely unknown countries
from now on, but also sadness to be leaving Germany which has been so very hospitable,
cultured and beautiful.
47
Chapter 5 Poland, Slovakia, Hungary
6 October – 11 November
Nie Polski
As we cross the border near Frankfurt an der Oder, heading due east, rural Poland
looks very attractive after eight days in Berlin. There‟s no border checkpoint, and the
oncoming traffic is literally hundreds of lorries bumper to bumper, with German, Polish,
Lithuanian, Romanian and other number plates. We suddenly become aware that Poland has
borders with the Czech Republic, Lithuania, Russia, Slovakia, Ukraine, Belarus and
Germany. The narrow Polish motorway is in terrible condition compared with the new ten
inch thick concrete one back in Germany.
We see forest, a few deer here and there, and some graffiti in English “NOBODY
NEEDS FASCISM”. Turning off the motorway we head south and stop at the little town of
Swiebodzin for the night. It feels so very foreign, in spite of signs pointing to a Tesco
supermarket nearby. We decide to say “Nie Polski” when we speak to people, meaning that
we don‟t speak Polish, rather than asking them if they speak English, which has an arrogance
which we want to avoid. It turns out that most people here know a bit of English, and we
know the basics in Polish (hello, goodbye, thank you), so it works out fine.
After a quiet night in a car park beside the hospital we head south to the banks of the
Odra River, near Pomorska where the trees have the first touches of autumn colour. We park
beside the wide and slow moving river and watch the car ferry which crosses on a wire, back
and forth all day. Fishermen are dotted around amongst the willows. A tiny disposable
barbecue bought in Newcastle a couple of years ago now has its moment of glory. We cook
up tandoori chicken and fried potatoes. It‟s bliss to be just hanging out in the country
watching the locals on the ferry with their cycles, cars, and motorbikes, with the odd sleek
barge gliding past.
The ferrymen work hard, pushing and pulling at the start and end of each trip to move
the boat out into the current. When they stop for lunch, they make a fire and boil water in a
stainless steel bucket. Two swans fly low overhead and towards the end of the day the crows
start gathering to roost. We make a move at five thirty and take the ferry across the river.
A road sign indicates to look out for horse drawn vehicles. People have their coal
fires burning. We stop for the night at Zielona Gora, a city first settled in the Middle Ages,
and part of Germany before WW2. Walking around the town we‟re amazed to see three
handsome All Blacks in an advertisement on the side of a bus.
Later we‟re gutted when we turn on the laptop and rainbow colours fill the screen.
Next day the local komputery tells us that the nearest Toshiba agency is in Krakow so we set
48
off as soon as we can, taking the back country roads south through Zagan, then a motorway
southeast, where the concrete surface is so rough we have to slow below our usual fifty miles
an hour. People are selling little piles of different fungi beside the motorway, there are yards
full of concrete gnomes for sale, and no fences as far as the eye can see. We see a red kite
above the road, a buzzard and a flock of lapwings. South of Wroclaw we pass a vast
industrial complex with IKEA and Tesco. We eventually figure out that the women standing
alone on the roadside are prostitutes.
Not far from Opole we see eighty massive advertising hoardings one after the other
and we‟re left in no doubt that Poland has embraced Capitalism. We‟re wondering where to
sleep the night when we see a sign for a truck stop with a cafe and shower. In the morning
it‟s foggy and three lorries are parked beside us. We head off past a military barracks and big
advertisements encouraging young people to join the army. Hideous cast concrete fences are
everywhere.
At Krakow we negotiate the ring road and various motorways to reach the old Jewish
suburb of Kazmierz where the Toshiba agent is located. We leave the van in the care of a
guard in a tiny car park. Usually our security consists of a padlock on a heavy chain across
the front seat, linking the door handles. We do the same at night when we go to bed.
The address we‟ve been given for the Toshiba agent isn‟t correct, but they direct us to
another computer business nearby where they enter the latop‟s details into their database, and
bingo, our worldwide guarantee is good. That‟s a relief. They tell us it will take at least two
weeks to fix and they‟ll call us. That comes as a bit of a shock but there‟s nothing we can do
about it.
John has been worried about the spare tyre which has been slowly deflating. We find
a tyre repair shop, and roll the tyre along the footpath. The guy there speaks no English but
he immediately sees what‟s required, tests the tyre in a bath of dirty water, spreads some
gunk near the rim, dips it into the water again, and it‟s fixed. Another huge relief.
We decide to head south into “Poland‟s Tuscany” which turns out to be a fabulous
place to visit in the autumn, full of colour and rural goings on.
Outside of Brzesko a farmer is making his way along the road with his horse and farm
cart, his dog sitting up with him. There are solitary house cows, people out spreading straw
and manure on strips of cultivated land, and old ladies in headscarves cutting fodder beet. At
Czchow near a hydro lake with forest down to the water‟s edge, we stop for the night in a car
park over the road from a truck stop. This is one of the main roads south to the border with
Slovakia so there are lots of huge lorries going past. Men are fishing in the lake and little
holiday houses run up the hillside.
49
When we set off again next day we‟re surrounded by forest on all sides, some conifer
plus deciduous turning yellow, orange and brown. We notice that there are many vans
identical to ours, exactly the same model even, and it feels great to blend in so well. There
are also fabulous tiny Fiat cars of 650cc with the motor in the back.
In the middle of the countryside we suddenly come across cars parked on the roadside
and people getting out and walking into a farmyard. It looks interesting so we stop and
follow them. It turns out to be the day when the poultry farm sells off its surplus hens and
people come from far and wide to take home sacks of them, half bald and wriggling. It‟s a
grim business and the people look quite hard. But it‟s a reprieve for the hens and we see lots
of them running free everywhere in the countryside, healthy and happy.
It‟s a horticultural area with glasshouses, apple orchards with harvesting underway,
and a huge juice factory with lorryloads of apples outside. This part of the world seems to
live off apples and potatoes.
The cemeteries are immaculate, the graves covered in artificial flowers, with perfect
cypresses around the outside. Special shops sell plastic flowers and the candles in glass
bottles that people place on the graves here. It‟s big business.
We arrive at Nowy Sacz in the Polish Carpathians, a market town since the Middle
Ages, and pick up brochures from the visitors‟ centre where a young man answers all our
questions in perfect English. We spend a wonderful couple of hours at the Ethnographic
Museum where they have reassembled a range of typical old buildings and set them up as a
museum, just like the National History Museum at St Fagans near Cardiff.
It‟s a beautiful tree clad site with enthusiastic guides to explain each building. There
are old barns, houses where the people lived in one end and the animals in the other, an old
wooden church with a beautiful painted interior, a 17th century manor house, old beehives, a
windmill, wonderful iron and enamel cooking pots, an ingenious machine to grind grain, a
loom, and the huge tiled heating and cooking stoves that we will see in Romania as well.
The key features of the wooden architecture in this part of Poland are everywhere:
wide wooden floorboards, elegant carved verandahs and overhangs on the exteriors, log cabin
construction, roofs of wooden shingles, and wooden onion domed churches. It‟s very
exciting to see such beautiful buildings in unpainted wood.
That night we go out for a meal to the Prowincjonalna Cafe, for beer and bigos, which
is a delicious stew with sauerkraut. The cafe is full of beautiful young people. Polish people
are very slim, and women of all ages are elegantly dressed.
The next day is gloriously sunny and we spend most of the afternoon beside the river
where the locals are hanging out as well. We cook fish fingers and have them on bread rolls
with mayonnaise for lunch, and boil up for tea and to wash my hair. We‟re too miserly even
50
to go to the pool now! We spread everything out in the sun, airing the bedding, then get out
the maps and work out where to go next. A couple in their fifties stop for a chat. He has no
English but she has a few words plus fluent Italian and Russian, and a smidgen of French. I
drag out the Italian dictionary and we talk for ages. They have a son who is an engineer in
London, and her sister is a professor of English. As they are leaving a huge flock of crows
starts gathering.
We drive back to our car park and John cooks a green curry. A carriage with two
chestnut horses goes past then a bride and groom pose in front of the old synagogue, now a
museum.
Our favourite guide book “On the Loose in Eastern Europe 1993” by Berkeley
students, has a quote from a dissident who left Poland in 1981which describes how Poles
have learnt to live together in order to cope with external threats. A Polish saying sums it up
“Death brings brotherhood”.
These are very turbulent economic times and we‟re already feeling the drop in the
value of the pound versus the Euro, but we‟re also impressed to hear from New Zealand that
the government has guaranteed all bank deposits.
I‟m reading Kapka Kassabova‟s “Street Without a Name” which is a fascinating
account of growing up in Bulgaria under Communism, then revisiting the country much later
as an adult. I think it probably gives a typical picture of the bleakness and deprivation of
urban life in Eastern Europe in the 1970s and 1980s. I have this in the back of my mind as
we devour Poland in 2008, four years after it joined the EU, where tradition and Catholicism
appear to co-exist with burgeoning Capitalism, a strong work ethic, and a sense of optimism.
Next morning we walk around town and discover that the Catholic churches are
overflowing, with a large part of the congregation outside and participating via loudspeakers,
and people even dropping to their knees in the street. The worshippers are a complete cross
section of the community. Poland is a homogeneous society with virtually everyone white
and Catholic, Catholicism providing a powerful solace and binding agent.
As we head south next day through Stary Sacz, the landscape becomes ever more
rural. Small horses are hard at work pulling carts on the road and ploughs in the fields. This
is peasant agriculture where the land is cultivated in strips about seventy feet wide and a
hundred and fifty long. It‟s a patchwork of strips, with the earth turned this way and that,
with different crops, and the worked soil at various stages of cultivation.
There are no fences for miles, not even around people‟s houses. In the Poprad Valley
autumn colours blaze from the avenues and forested hillsides, beech and maples the most
brilliant mix of orange, yellow, brown and red, with scattered conifers in shades of green.
51
Polish Builders
We stop in Andrzejowka to look at the wooden Church of St Mary from 1860. Each
of the three separate parts is topped with an onion dome, and wooden shingles clad the walls
and top the immaculate fence. Two women are plucking geese in front of a house on the path
leading to the church.
We drive through Muszyna with its mineral water factories, then Krynica an old spa
town where people come to drink the unsavoury looking water. We see people walking
around the town with special mugs with long spouts, knocking it back like their lives depend
on it. We‟re not tempted, but decide to spend a couple of nights in Krynicka with its glorious
old wooden buildings, described by the Rough Guide as “redolent of fin de siècle central
Europe”. We park on the promenade beside the river and join the strolling Polish tourists
who are all our age. The buildings here are works of art, made of wood and up to four
storeys high, often brightly painted and with verandahs, gables, painted decorations and
onion domes.
Another popular art form is the large rough-hewn wooden sculptures made from tree
trunks. They are everywhere, often outside a front gate or shop. Most are of people,
beautiful and elegant. Wood rules in this part of the world.
We hear about Nikifor, a Lemko (a small ethnic group from the Polish Carpathian
mountains) artist who painted in a primitive style: local buildings and landscapes as well as
fantasy scenes. We visit the museum devoted to his life and work, though not much of his
work survives as he used very cheap materials and tended to give pictures away to people on
the street. The pictures are in water colour and coloured pencil, simple and beautiful. He
was hardly able to speak, had an intellectual impairment, and he was penniless, yet in spite of
all this Nikifor had a strong sense of his own importance as an artist.
I go to a posh hotel with a swimming pool for a shower then we take a trip on the
funicular train to the top of a two and a half thousand foot mountain. It travels through
gorgeous golden brown beech forest, and at the top we have a beer in the bar and enjoy
watching the local over-sixties having fun dancing to folk music. The menu is fascinating:
wild boar chops and steak, stewed elk in vodka, roast pheasant, and deer. There are several
kinds of the dumplings called pierogi which are like ravioli, and I take one of the menus for
future reference as it has translations. We walk back down to the town through the wonderful
beech forest which has subtle variations of gold and brown.
We exit Krynica past a ski field, old wooden houses and new log cabins. Then we‟re
into steep forest with massive road works where the hillside is being stabilised. At Berest we
visit a church with dark brown wooden shingle walls and three silver onion domes. There‟s a
black squirrel eating in a tree, a jay digging in the soil, a horse and cart, cows, ploughed land,
52
and low hills covered with yellow, gold, brown and orange deciduous trees mixed with
conifers. It‟s all smoky and hazy like Tuscany. The farms have old barns, hens, wells,
beautiful orchards, grapes, and berries. Then at Kammiana which is isolated and rough,
Muscovy ducks are sitting on a muck heap, there‟s a perfect little log cabin, and a beekeeping
centre with displays of beautiful old painted beehives, one a wooden church. These rural
scenes appear idyllic when seen from the road at this time of year, but it must be a hard life.
I discover that I‟ve packed “Wild Animals of Britain and Europe” and I read that all
the squirrels here are called red squirrels even though the fur of the ones living in some parts
of Europe is black. They live off pine nuts which they extract by chewing off the outside of
the pine cone. They need two hundred seeds a day, and they don‟t hibernate.
Wood is the material of choice here for sculptures, crucifixes, tepee like structures
where hay is dried, and to prop up verandahs. We‟re in our element in this landscape,
gasping over each farmer with a horse drawn plough or old lady in a headscarf with a cow.
When we stop to make coffee at a picnic area with a tiny cafe John goes in with the
phrasebook and emerges with delicious fresh bread rolls. The sun comes out.
Everywhere we see big new houses of brick and plaster, in every stage of
construction, and many abandoned, half built. There are builders everywhere so the Polish
builders can‟t all be in Britain. The men here seem to work very long days. Many of the new
houses are empty or with only the bottom two floors occupied, leaving the top storey open to
the weather. We ask people about this building boom and they don‟t seem to understand our
questions, though we do work out that many of the houses are for people who live in the
cities or overseas.
We take a back road south west following the Dunajec River, with the hills in blue
grey layers. We see an egret on the river bank and an old woman gathering watercress. The
older women work very hard, always out with the cow or the fodder beet, or tending the
garden.
We overtake a cart loaded with sacks of apples, with a disgruntled looking woman
sitting on the top. It seems like paradise as we stop to take photos of the rust/primrose/russet
hillsides, some with patches of perfect peaked conifers. We boil up for lunch, then stop at a
sawmill and walk through a shower of yellow maple leaves up a side road to Grywald, to see
a 15th century church.
Further on in a dark gully we see Gypsy houses. Two children are walking along the
road towards us and when John toots the horn and waves they wave back like crazy.
At Lake Czorsztynskie, a hydro lake, we walk around inside a ruined 15th century
castle and get fantastic views along the lake. It was a customs point for trade with Hungary
which used to be just over the river, in what is now Slovakia. Back on the road we end up in
53
a long queue of traffic at a standstill behind a tiny horse and cart. Then we see shepherds in
traditional dress rounding up a flock of sheep. A man is spreading seed by hand while his
horse waits. The big wooden houses have barns and farmyards attached. There have been no
birds of prey for days, just crows.
Then we‟re in Nowy Targ (new market) and John sits up the front listening to the
Polish radio while I make slow cooked sausages with leeks in apple gravy, remembering the
Waitrose recipe I used in Surrey.
Next morning we‟re up early for the famous market which has taken place weekly
since 1487. Markets have a magnetic pull for us, and this one is described in the guide book
as farmers selling their wares, with a recent influx of Russians. It‟s vast and all outdoors with
people dotted everywhere selling little sheep‟s milk cheeses. Long queues of women wait at
the butchers‟ vans. The wares consist of an abundance of leather and fur coats, clothes,
baskets, furniture, air rifles, horse shoes, knives, iron work, tools, bearings, buckets, harness,
fruit and vegetables: the necessities of a tough rural way of life.
Best of all are the animals – a dozen horses, a few litters of weaner pigs which send
John into raptures, cows, and puppies. Farmers stand around talking, probably discussing the
weather and the prices. There are busloads of Slovakians, who‟ve travelled the thirty or so
miles across the border, buying up large.
We head off towards Debno, past a man cutting grass with a scythe while a woman
rakes it into piles with a wooden pronged rake. The St Michael Archangel Church at Debno
is the high point of our church viewing in Poland. Built in the 15th century out of larch, with
no nails, it has a steep grey shingle roof, a witch‟s hat steeple, brown shingle sides, and an
immaculate log fence topped with a shingle roof. Trees tower above it. Inside we‟re quite
overwhelmed by the superb painted wooden interior and carvings. Virtually every surface is
painted in great detail, and there is an intense sense of intimacy and meaning. The ceiling is
painted in a series of long strips each a foot wide, each in a different pattern, reminiscent of a
Maori meeting house. The beautiful colours of the paint have lasted for five hundred years.
There‟s a painted wooden crucifix carved in 1380 with the cross taken from a tree with two
branches conveniently pointing upwards. A very kind and gentle young man shows us
around.
Feeling quite overcome with the intense beauty of this church, we press on towards
Lopuszna where we see a glorious 17th century manor house all decked out with household
items and clothing, and a little cottage. On a back road in search of little villages we pass an
old lady in a mauve dress bent double, digging with a mattock. Slovakian cars loaded to the
gunnels with market booty overtake us.
For the last few days we‟ve been seeing rhus plants with their bright red leaves
everywhere, a beautiful addition to the autumn colour scheme.
54
A flock of geese is enclosed by a low wooden fence, in a village of old log houses
with long lean tos at the back attached to huge wooden barns. As usual there are many
unfinished three storey brick houses. It‟s raining a bit but we get our first glimpse of the
Tatra Mountains, high and snowy. John has just read that serfdom ended here in 1931! That
explains the strip farming. We‟re on a back road passing through tiny villages like Lapse
Wyzne and Trybsz, where the houses and adjoining farm buildings are quaintly dilapidated.
We drive down an avenue of glorious yellow poplars, and as always there are little shrines
beside the road.
At last we arrive in Zakopane, Poland‟s premier mountain resort. It‟s inundated with
hikers in summer, skiers in winter, and full of Polish high school pupils now. So many of
them are out on school trips that we wonder when they ever go to school! We find a laundry
which will do two loads of washing for fifty zloty (twelve quid) and we can pick it up the
next day. We park on the outskirts of town near the ski jump, exhausted after such a
stimulating time.
Next day we have our worst public pool experience of the whole trip. It‟s at the local
state of the art pool Aqualand. We pay the exorbitant price of four pounds each to get in,
discover that the control freakish staff outnumber the swimmers, (surprise, surprise!), and
realise that the wristband we are issued with has a chip in it to record the length of your stay.
If you stay for more than an hour you have to pay for each extra minute before you can leave!
I bet it was never like this under Communism. We‟re only there for a shower and I get told
off right at the start for not using a locker. We have a quick shower and scarper.
Our car park is in one of the few free parking areas in town opposite the mountain
rescue headquarters. We see lots of people coming and going from there and builders toiling
long hours reroofing a house next door.
Zakopane is at 3200 feet. To the south are jagged, sheer mountains which remind us
of the Remarkables back home. On our first morning they have a dusting of fresh snow on
top, and by the third morning it‟s zero degrees inside the van and there‟s ice on the metal on
the ceiling. We take the funicular to the top of Gubalowka Hill on a perfect day for superb
views all around. Layers of blue mountains are framed by spiky conifers in the foreground.
The highlights of Zakopane are the wooden buildings, and carved wooden headstones
in the old cemetery at St Clements Church. The cemetery has a stone fence protected by a
shingle roof all the way round, trees, plants and bunches of flowers. Each headstone is
different, and most are carved in wood. Many consist of a hollow tree trunk with a peaked
roof, and inside a carved crucifix, or a sculpture of Jesus in a reflective pose with his chin
resting on the palm of one hand, and his elbow on his knee. This contemplative Christ is
traditional in the Tatras. He has the troubles of the world on his shoulders.
55
We visit Willa Koliba, the first house designed by Stanislaw Witkiewicz, father of the
Zakopane style, the very distinctive wooden architecture of the area. He seems to have been
a Polish William Morris. It‟s now the Museum of the Zakopane Style, complete with carved
wooden beams, doors and lintels, and displays of the intricately carved furniture he created.
The house is two storeyed and beautifully proportioned, built of larch in 1894.
Then we walk along Koscieliska Street which has fine examples of the characteristic
gorgeous wooden houses, many built of logs with wooden roofs. After that we make our way
back to our parking spot but we‟re stopped by the police as the roads are closed for a big
parade to celebrate Zakopane‟s seventy five years as a city. Most people in the parade are
wearing the local costume of white woollen trousers and black hats for men, and floral
dresses for women. Horses are pulling everything from old fire engines to carriages. There‟s
a large contingent behind the Solidarity banner. Later, back in our park, we see a display of
fireworks.
We can‟t get enough of the houses so next day we head to Chocholow, a little village
famous for some of the finest. To my great excitement we see some new birds, a flock of
fieldfares in an apple tree. It‟s Sunday morning and the locals are all walking to church,
many in traditional dress. We visit the little museum which is set up like a typical highlander
house of old. As always the domestic tools of the past are fascinating: wooden churns, a
wooden sauerkraut holder the size of a washing machine, a loom, and a large wooden bowl
and spoon which the whole family would have eaten from. The woman looking after the
museum tells us that some of the family would have slept on the floor in the straw, and that
thirty degree frosts and waist deep snow are common. The horses, pigs, cows and sheep
would all sleep under the same roof as the family.
In the tiny village shop which becomes packed after church, I buy some frozen
pierogi and hang them up in the van to thaw. We drive through an area with beautiful forest
and big piles of logs, often numbered, sitting there ageing in preparation for a new house.
John is quite beside himself with the wonderful houses and piles of timber and we have to
stop and take lots of photos. We love the shepherds‟ huts, tiny and basic with outdoor clothes
hanging from a peg, smoke coming from the chimney, and a dog tied up outside.
Eventually after driving through Wadowice the birth place of Pope John Paul II, we
arrive at a fishing lake at Graboszyce and decide to spend the night there. There are a few
fishermen, the fish are jumping, and the pierogi are delicious.
In the morning greylag geese and cormorants fly past and a grey heron lands nearby.
We drive through rolling country of big ploughed fields and down an avenue of oaks in
fabulous autumn shades. Near Stary Monowskie we stop at a series of lakes which are for
carp fishing. I go for a walk and see swans, cormorants, a blue tit, some deer prints and
shotgun cartridges. It‟s beautiful and misty. We‟re on our way to Oswiecim, which Hitler
renamed Auschwitz.
56
When we get there we park in a large truck stop which by the morning has twenty
four lorries lined up. One has a blowup doll in the passenger‟s seat.
A Kestrel Over Birkenau
We approach Auschwitz with trepidation. We‟ve heard that birds don‟t sing there,
but that‟s not true. Our large group of English speaking tourists is guided by an articulate and
intelligent young man who carefully gives us the Polish perspective. For example when the
Nazis decided to build the camp, they turned the locals out of their houses and cleared the
countryside for a wide radius. Then they tore apart the houses in the area to use as building
materials to construct the camp. After the war, when the locals returned, they took apart
many of the prison camp buildings to rebuild their houses. Poland lost twenty five per cent of
its population during WW2. I keep reminding myself of this when I look around at Polish
people.
Large numbers of young Poles are visiting and our guide estimates that the proportion
of visitors is about sixty per cent young to forty per cent older people. Some of the children
are as young as ten and I struggle to understand what is achieved by bringing them here. I
don‟t have any faith in the idea that they will somehow be inoculated against racism, anti
Semitism, fascism or participation in mass murder by being exposed to this place. The
causes are far too complex, and human beings are far too vulnerable to changes in their
environment for this to be achieved easily. But perhaps they are brought here to understand
their own history.
A group of Israeli teenagers gives us more things to ponder. They appear to be very
nationalistic, waving large Israeli flags and wearing hoodies decorated with the Star of David.
It makes us feel uncomfortable in this sombre place.
Apart from a crushing feeling of desolation at being there, the things that really hit
home for me are connected with the individuals who died. In one of the washrooms there are
paintings by prisoners on a wall, memories of happy times: cats, two little children, and men
on horses in a river. Many people sent to the camps believed that they were about to begin a
new life, and brought their cooking utensils with them. There‟s a huge room filled with old
worn enamel cooking pots. There‟s also a room full of human hair which was made into
fabric, and many hand knitted children‟s jumpers.
In a book of short stories by Tadeusz Borowski, a non Jewish Polish survivor of
Auschwitz, “This Way for the Gas Ladies and Gentlemen”, the main characters are prisoners
who work on the railway ramp moving the newly arrived people to the gas chamber, and
running a black market in their less valuable property. The portrayal of dehumanisation and
betrayal at all levels is enlightening. Tadeusz Borowski , a brilliant and very influential
writer, committed suicide aged twenty nine in 1951, deeply disillusioned with Communism.
57
The visits are an industry and the complex is massive, with constant busloads of
people and cars from the Netherlands, Italy, Slovakia and Germany.
We‟re wiped out by it all and when we get back to the van we‟re gutted to discover
that the lights have been left on and the battery is flat. John approaches a couple of taxi
drivers and after some discussion one of them offers to drive back into town to pick up
jumper leads and start the van for twenty zloty which is less than five pounds. While he‟s
gone John has a few words with another taxi driver. When he hears that we‟re from New
Zealand he just says “Poland fifty years of Communism, New Zealand no Communism”, like,
what more is there to say? It takes a few turns to get the van going and we gratefully pay
thirty zloty.
We need to drive for an hour or so without stopping to charge the battery so we head
to a camping ground on the outskirts of Krakow, Camping Smok. Fortunately we‟ve already
phoned them to ask if they have a laundry, first texting Zoe in Sydney to ask her to find their
number on the internet, and she texts a friend who does it on his laptop on the way home
from work on the ferry. The joys of travelling in 2008!
The camp is nearly empty. We do the washing and dry it outside then spend the rest
of the day sorting out the back of the van. I cook dinner in a pleasant outdoor kitchen and
talk to a Dutch couple in a camper who are travelling in the same style as us. There‟s also a
charming couple from Norfolk in their thirties with a lurcher and a mongrel, in a large
camper, who‟ve been away for the same length of time as us. They‟ve been to Norway,
Sweden, Denmark, Finland, Latvia and Estonia, and have seen white tailed eagles and a
golden eagle, so we have a lot to talk about. The women in both couples have been to
Romania and tell us it‟s fabulous. We‟ve been reading the Rough Guide and getting very
inspired about Romania. Even the language looks great for understanding signs, because the
vocabulary is very similar to Latin.
Chez Tesco
After two nights at Camping Smok we drive into Krakow and find a twenty four hour
Tesco supermarket with a mall attached. We go grocery shopping then decide to spend the
night in the car park as there appears to be no limit to how long you can stay. Next day we
catch the tram into the centre of the city and discover that young people give up their seats to
older people here.
Krakow is the only major city in Poland that wasn‟t damaged in WW2. The vast
main square is paved with flagstones and surrounded by glorious ancient buildings. The huge
14th century cloth hall which forms the centrepiece now houses a market for tourists. It‟s all
very grand, but with the feel of a working city getting on its feet, rather than a museum for
tourists. Classy horses pulling carriages come barrelling along and we have to jump out of
the way to avoid being run down. There‟s a pair of Appaloosas, a couple of half draughts,
58
some similar to Welsh cobs, and a few large grand white carriages. English papers and
magazines are available at a bookshop in the square and we fall upon them greedily. The
bookshops have books by a celebrity chef who‟s a nun! We discover a market selling fruit,
vegetables, flowers and strange fungi from the forest, and a few older women on the street
selling their own eggs, garlic and walnuts, with one elderly lady holding up a dozen
enormous bras. We buy two large synthetic blankets for the cold nights to come, and warm
up with beetroot soup and frytki (chips).
On the Sunday we drive around looking for a pool and find a brilliant cheap one on
the western side of the city. We also find a fabulous flea market with dolls, military and
Russian gear, clothes, tools, air rifles, horse collars, silverware, books, all sorts of antiques,
coins and medals. I find a fabulous old train driver‟s hat which will be great for the dress ups
back home.
Many of the buildings have crumbling facades but there is beautiful detail in the
decorations. Large hoardings advertise a new TV programme: a Union Jack is divided into
sections containing the faces of young actors, possibly a drama series about young Poles in
Britain. We also see more of the army recruitment billboards.
We‟ve heard of Nowa Huta, a massive steelworks and suburb on the eastern outskirts
of the city, and drive out there to reconnoitre. It was built in the 1950s as a model socialist
industrial town, a gift from the Soviet Union, with the steelworks originally named after
Lenin. It‟s now owned by Arcelor Mittal the largest steel company in the world. Apparently
the original intention was to counteract the conservative Catholic belief systems of the people
of Krakow with this shining example of a harmoniously functioning utopia for workers.
The population is currently two hundred thousand and with the industrial complex of
steelworks, cigarette factory, and power station, plus apartment blocks, it covers a vast area.
We drive around some of it and John takes lots of photos in spite of the “NO PHOTOS” sign
on the fence of an abandoned mill. The pollution problem with acid rain and smoke was
huge until the 1990s when it was partly cleaned up. The trees are now quite large but their
bark is black.
We‟re fascinated by the lines of uniform apartment buildings stretching into the
distance. The town was designed to provide everything people needed, and we try to imagine
what it would have been like to live here in the decades after the 1950s when the community
was developing. We decide to do some research before we come back for more exploring,
and head back to Tesco, our home away from home, choosing a different spot to park for the
night to avoid looking too permanent.
Next day it‟s a beautiful hot Sunday and we catch the tram into town to promenade
with the locals by the river and around Wawel Castle, followed by a delicious dinner at cheap
and cheerful Gospoda Koko restaurant. I have vegetable soup, and mushroom and cabbage
59
pierogi, and John has chicken soup and roast pork. In the square a band of three
accordionists plays classical organ music and we feel like real tourists listening to them after
the luxury of a meal out.
I‟d broken a filling a few days earlier and phoned my dentist back in New Zealand for
advice. He reassured me that Eastern European dentists are excellent and suggested a high
quality temporary filling would last several months. Luckily I‟ve managed to find an English
speaking dentist who can see me. We duly turn up for the appointment and after sitting in the
waiting room for a while we‟re amazed when they tell us that the clocks have been put back
so we‟re an hour early. We retreat out onto the street and watch the spectacle of new tram
tracks being laid with countless men hard at work. Polish men seem to be either builders or
road workers.
The dentist specialises in dental tourism and also rents out apartments. He speaks
good English (“We will make anaesthesia”) and fixes my tooth effortlessly, for which I am
very grateful. This eventuality wasn‟t in our plans and it doesn‟t seem worth claiming on our
travel insurance. It‟s a change of mindset to just take care of it ourselves like this, quite a
confidence boost!
The receptionist tells us that Poland has only 4 per cent unemployment, and we read
in the paper that 400,000 Poles are expected to return from the UK following the economic
downturn, since they can now make reasonable money back home. We‟re feasting on the
English papers and read that Google reports fewer searches for city breaks and Spanish
property, with searches for apple crumble recipes up forty per cent on a year ago! Hard times
in Britain.
We trek back to the komputery in the old Jewish section Kazmierz and they tell us
that the laptop will be at least another two weeks. It‟s pretty hard to take and we have to
calm down with a beer outside in the sun. We‟ll be forced to spend longer in Poland than
we‟d planned but we can now disappear into the countryside again, a wonderful prospect
with the hot sunny autumn weather we‟ve been having. With no fixed itinerary and no
bookings whatsoever, a couple of extra weeks here and there won‟t cause a problem. We just
need to keep moving south ahead of the winter.
Back in the van and after my latest creation, Tesco Salad (rotisserie chicken, salad
greens, grapes, red pepper, red onion, grated carrot and mayonnaise), we‟re in bed reading by
six o‟clock! It‟s a worry but it‟s completely dark by five these days. John looks up the atlas
and discovers that we‟re on the same latitude as Cornwall.
I‟m keen to cast a special vote in the New Zealand election and I manage to download
a voting form in an internet cafe, complete it, and post it to our embassy in Warsaw. For
some reason it feels very exciting!
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Next day we visit the Wieliczka Salt Mine which is seven hundred years old and a
thousand metres deep, a warm and salty place. Most of Poland‟s salt is still derived from
salty water extracted from here. Our guide is the third generation of his family to work here,
with his father and grandfather both miners, for forty and forty five years respectively. He
tells us that salt mining is very safe with no cave ins. The last people to be killed there died
in an explosion caused by their cigarettes. He says that coal miners consider salt miners to be
wimps. Polish miners being very religious, there are thirty six chapels within the mine and
many religious carvings. The piece de resistance is the fifty four metre long St Kinga chapel
which has a salt relief of the Last Supper five inches deep.
Horses worked in the mine until the 1960s, living down there for a year at a time. In
the olden days they were raised and lowered on rope slings, along with the miners. In the
1970s there were seventeen hundred workers. The underground museum is fascinating with
old plans, maps, books, accounts, and a rope from 1495. After all that excitement we spend
the night in a different Tesco car park on the other side of town but it isn‟t half as good, not
being twenty four hour. In our regular one we see accidents and dramas every day.
We need to do the washing again so we catch the tram into town with our bags of
laundry and find a great laundrette with a computer, board games, a couch, table, chairs and
coffee. I notice three young Spanish guys folding their clean laundry to perfection. Any
mother would be proud of them!
We do some searching on the internet, trying to find a supplier for the chemical we
use in the van‟s toilet because it‟s about to run out. We‟ve had no luck with any of the
outdoor shops and it can be quite a hard thing to mime if no-one speaks English. We get a
few leads off the Yellow Pages but we‟re not hopeful.
Back at Tesco after a nightmarish drive through heavy traffic, detours and wrong
turnings down no exit streets, I go shopping for dinner: fish to poach, broccoli, roast potatoes
from the deli, and a jar of beetroot.
Next day we return to Nowa Huta to do some exploring and visit the central square,
originally named after Stalin, then post 1990, renamed Ronald Reagan Central Square! It‟s a
strange mix of architectural styles, with solid four storeyed apartment blocks above, and at
street level stylish arcades apparently modelled on a sixteenth century market square.
One of the bizarre things we learn about Nowa Huta from the brochure is that it was
constructed to withstand an attack by NATO forces, with a labyrinth of passageways,
entrances to buildings concealed behind curved walls, and special security devices. This
made it very difficult for the police when there were many anti-government demonstrations
here during the period of martial law in the 1980s. Far from being the socialist paradise of
the communist leaders‟ dreams, Nowa Huta was a hotbed of dissent, starting with a long
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campaign by the people for the right to build churches, and ending in the eighties as an
important Solidarity stronghold.
Back home over a year later I look up Nowa Huta on Wikipedia and discover a
popular song with its own video clip of the newly built town, with pedestrians, old cars, and
fantastic aerial shots which give an idea of the scale and order of the place.
The apartment blocks are from several different eras and styles, the earliest ones on a
far more human scale with mature trees. Small shops, supermarkets, chemist shops, medical
centres and schools are dotted around everywhere. It‟s a grim and windy day and everyone is
walking. The Poles seem to walk everywhere, even little children. The footpaths are in very
poor repair with bare dirt and large holes and in the rain it would be a nightmare. The roads
have ruts as deep as eight inches in the asphalt and holes in the cobbles. People say you need
a neck brace to drive in Poland, but this is nothing compared with what Romania has in store
for us.
The Ark of the Lord, Mother of God, Queen of Poland Church was consecrated in
1977, twenty years after a cross was placed on the spot in preparation for the building of the
first church in Nowa Huta. Years of struggle and protest followed by ten years of
construction culminated in the building of this striking church, designed by a Polish architect
in the shape of Noah‟s Ark landing on Mount Ararat. Its lines are beautifully curvaceous and
the interior very unusual with eyecatching works by Polish sculptors. We find it a very
powerful place, symbolic of people‟s commitment and faith in the face of oppression. It has
a close association with Pope John Paul II, as he staunchly supported its construction at each
stage of his ascendancy through the ranks of the Catholic Church. The square in front was
the venue for many confrontations between demonstrators and the military during the time of
martial law in the early 1980s.
Chinski Meets Polski
On our drive back to Tesco, still working on the vexed question of where to get some
toilet chemical, I have a brainwave. If we see a Polish camper van we could write down the
phone number from the side of the camper then phone the company. Unbelievably ten
minutes later we see a car go past with ABM Campers written on it. Back at the mall I visit
the travel agent where there‟s a public internet computer and find their address online. But
we can‟t find the street on any map so decide to ask a taxi driver in the morning. John cooks
a delicious dinner: three different types of pierogi dumplings, Tesco roast potatoes,
mushrooms cooked in a Chinese sauce, broccoli, and sauerkraut.
Next morning John asks a taxi driver and a delivery driver where the street is and they
point us in the general direction. But Google Maps comes to the rescue again and we write
down the lengthy directions, turn right, turn left, and so on. We drive through a vast
industrial zone with factories and small businesses spread over a wide area along a maze of
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rough roads with no signposts, and ask a guy sweeping the road who points the way. We are
so relieved to find ABM Campers at last with ten beautiful new campers lined up outside,
amazing since we‟ve hardly seen ten campers in the whole time we‟ve been in Poland. They
have to summon the boss as he‟s the only one who speaks English and he sells us all the toilet
chemical he has, enough to last us a few months. He‟s absolutely charming and warns us to
watch out for heavy traffic at the weekend as its All Saints and a big holiday.
We leave town and head east towards Tarnow along the same road that we drove on
to leave Krakow three weeks ago. This time the beeches have finished their autumn display
and the oaks are a glorious yellow. Tarnow is a gorgeous old town with a Medieval square
and centre. Before WW2 the population was forty five per cent Jewish. All of the Jewish
people in the town died during the war, mostly at Auschwitz and Birkenau. We walk down a
street where three thousand were shot at the start of the war. It‟s very chastening and
chilling.
We park in a suburban car park surrounded by shops and apartment blocks and lie in
bed reading while it rains. The following evening we emerge to take part in the All Saints
festival, celebrated in Poland, as in many other Catholic countries, for centuries.
For the previous few days there‟s been a frenzy of people buying candles, plastic
flowers and huge potted chrysanthemums, and they‟re still on sale outside the cemetery.
People have been placing lighted candles on the graves all day, to help the departed souls to
find their way in the darkness. We walk around the cemetery with hundreds of people, up
and down the rows of graves. On most there are up to twenty burning candles in glass
containers five to twelve inches high, some of the glass red, green or yellow, and some plain.
There are huge chrysanthemums of all colours, and artificial flowers. Some of the graves
have been decorated very artistically.
People are standing silently or talking amongst themselves and there are lots of
children involved. It‟s very beautiful with the glowing candles, old trees mostly bare of
leaves, and a strong smell of candle wax. Outside is a large memorial inscribed with the
names of concentration camps, with more candles and people standing in contemplation.
After our stay in Krakow we‟re desperate for some time in the country, so next day
we drive to a fishing lake and spend a blissful day lying in the sun reading, boiling the kettle,
making toast over a fire, drinking tea and coffee, eating, and tidying up the van. Absolute
bliss.
Next day we park in a supermarket car park and have lovely pierogi for lunch in an
old fashioned cafe. When we get back to the van we discover that you have to pay for the
parking and we owe twenty one zloty (five pounds). The machine won‟t take my twenty
zloty note. A man appears and goes to the office to change it into two tens. Still no joy from
the machine. So he goes back inside again and gets a much used bent paper clip to retrieve a
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coin that is stuck in the machine. At last! But then it will only take one note and I have to
put in two five zloty coins. Too much excitement. We drive to a quiet street and sleep for a
couple of hours.
We‟d called in at the Ke-Moro Gypsy Restaurant earlier and they told us there would
be Gypsy music at eight, so we return at seven, our usual bedtime, and order the traditional
dish, potato cakes with stew. Absolutely delicious. We‟re virtually the only guests. There‟s
just a large table with the owners (a couple in their fifties), and two couples in their thirties
who must be their family, an older man on his own, and a guy with a disability who is served
with a meal as well.
The decor is perfect, draped fabric, a little cartwheel, paintings of Gypsy scenes, horse
collars, and on the tiny stage a double bass and other instruments, with guitars hanging on the
wall. The women are beautiful and look Indian. The men are very distinctive looking with
heavy faces. Gypsies originate in India which they left in the 10th and 11th centuries, arriving
in Europe in the early 13th century. Adam Andrasz (who we discover next day at the museum
is the leader of the local Gypsy community) goes on stage and plays an electronic keyboard
and sings Gypsy songs. The others sing along and dance and we get up and dance as well.
It‟s wonderful music and we feel like we‟re part of a very intimate party. They put on a
special track and dance Gypsy style in couples but separate and it‟s fantastic. At the end of
each song Mr Anrdasz puts on the applause track of loud clapping and everyone has a good
laugh. It‟s like the keyboard is his new toy.
We feel very welcome and they keep coming over to us to check that we have
everything we need. The lone guy who isn‟t the full quid gets quite excited at times joining
in the dancing, but gets a little over the top. The matriarch and the men gently but firmly get
him to sit down and behave. It‟s an impressive display of tolerance.
Cygan
Next morning we visit the botanic gardens where the large trees are named, the usual
deciduous ones plus a huge gingko with brilliant yellow leaves. We see two black squirrels
gathering chestnuts and chasing each other and also rooks foraging in the deep autumn
leaves. The park is open from seven in the morning till nine at night. That‟s four and a half
hours of darkness. The Poles are not really flower gardeners. There are lots of trees around
but no flower beds or landscaping anywhere especially at people‟s houses where they just
plant the ex cemetery chrysanthemums in the backyard, if anything. Everywhere men are
raking leaves into plastic bags then the leaves are collected with old tractors and trailers with
not a leaf blower to be seen. There are also lots of men digging by hand on road works with
no heavy machinery.
We visit the Ethnographic Museum to see the Gypsy (Cygan) exhibition, the only one
in Europe. The local museum director is a champion of the Gypsy cause. Each year in
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Tarnow they hold a memorial procession of Gypsy caravans and modern vehicles with people
camping out along the way in memory of the Gypsies who were killed in the holocaust. In
Poland they were reduced from fifty thousand to fifteen thousand, and in Europe the Gypsy
population was halved by the holocaust. In the 1850s many were slaves in Europe.
The exhibition consists of paintings, drawings, photographs, clothing, cooking pots, a
tent, tools, horse gear, little magic charms (chicken bones wrapped in hair), maps,
concentration camp records, and a dulcimer. Outside there are several wooden Gypsy
caravans that are used in the annual trek. Many of the collection items are from Bulgaria and
Romania with a few from Britain. Prejudice and discrimination towards Roma in Poland
now is also discussed. It‟s very sad but impressive to see such a wonderful collection. We
feel very tuned in to the old Gypsy way of life.
The countryside calls again and we spend the next day beside the Dunajec River
reading and looking at maps and atlases, with John working out our route into Romania. A
couple of fly fishermen in waders walk into the river and cast up and down. Seagulls are in a
feeding frenzy diving into the river. There are lots of rooks as well. We drive back into
town, park by the theatre, and John cooks dumplings, green curry, rice and Brussels sprouts.
It‟s another very foggy night.
Next morning we head north of Tarnow towards Zalipie and pass a few people sitting
on the roadside on the outskirts of town selling what looks like milk in plastic soft drink
bottles. We drive through flat country down avenues of bare beech trees past ploughed fields
and unfinished houses. There‟s a big tractor with a massive plough, then fifty yards further
along a man is standing sharpening a scythe.
We follow a tiny sealed road only the width of one car through a field to a village.
The silver birches are yellow. The villages have old houses with hens, Muscovy ducks, mud,
old wells and barns. There are huge piles of sugar beet and factory farms of pigs and
chickens indoors. We stop at a WW1 cemetery with over five hundred graves of Russian,
Austrian and Hungarian soldiers, huge oak trees, and a hen and rooster pecking around. A
pile of oak leaves is against the outside of the cemetery fence, then ten yards away a long
mountain of mangolds, and behind that an old barn with a pile of manure next to a stack of
firewood.
We arrive in Zalipie a spread out little village famous for its painted houses. Over a
hundred years ago, before they had chimneys, the women whitewashed the smoky walls of
their houses with lime wash. This developed into decorating the inside and outside walls
with colourful folk art flowers, some of the painters became famous, and house painting
competitions began. The competition is still held each year and about twenty houses in
Zalipie are freshly painted for it. They are immaculate and beautiful.
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Best of all is the museum, formerly the house of the most famous painter who died in
1974. Her granddaughter lives over the road and she shows us around the museum, with its
painted floral patterns on the walls and ceilings, floral pottery, religious paintings, and best of
all paper lace curtains made from heavy semi transparent paper cut on the folds to make
flower patterns when unfolded, like paper doilies. They hang over the top third of the
windows. Back on the road we see painted barns and letterboxes, a painted jetty and a
painted well. Amongst the colour there‟s mud around the houses, no concrete paths,
ferocious dogs, and flocks of geese. I wonder to myself if the women need those lovely
painted flowers to cheer themselves up!
We set off again past strawberry fields where men are weeding by hand. We‟re
heading to Pilzno looking for the doll museum but we get lost on the rough back roads. We
eventually find it and when I go into the town hall to ask for directions I encounter a lovely
woman with no English. She takes me next door to the chemist, they tell her what I‟m
looking for in Polish and she leads me across the square and points in the direction of the doll
museum. I say thank you then go back to look for John, but she comes chasing after me
pointing in the direction of the museum, then asks someone she knows who is sitting in a car
to take me there. Oh dear! I can‟t explain anything to her. I‟m scared in case she sees me
going in the opposite direction from the museum. Eventually I find John and we head to the
museum, but we are quickly overtaken by a young man. Are we going to the doll museum?
He will show us the way, his mother runs it. It‟s just a few metres from where we parked the
van! It costs twenty zloty for the two of us. That‟s a lot. It‟s only two tiny rooms, actually a
tiny doll factory rather than a museum. We head home to Tarnow on an incredibly rough
road, exhausted.
Back in Tarnow John checks his email and there‟s one from the computer shop saying
the laptop is fixed. It needed a new motherboard. Overjoyed, we drive to Krakow, park at
Tesco and have rotisserie chicken, bread rolls and a bottle of Asti to celebrate.
In the morning we pick up the laptop, do the washing at the laundrette, go to the pool
for a shower, and spend up large on the Times, Independent, Daily Telegraph, Herald
Tribune, and Newsweek, catching up on Obama‟s victory. This may be our last chance to
buy English papers for a while. We need to keep in touch with the news in case the Foreign
Office advises against visiting one of the countries on our route. With our UK plates we‟re
always aware that we could be the target of anti British feeling.
After our final night chez Tesco we head south on a Saturday, with the heater on,
windows down, and merino tops drying in the back. We gain height quickly and soon we‟re
in conifer forests with wooden houses. Texts are coming through from New Zealand about
the election, and we‟re stunned to hear that National has won. We drive through a smooth
glaciated landscape and enter Slovakia at Lysa Polana where it‟s all mountains, conifer
forests, ski fields and tourist villages.
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Houses of all ages are of a similar style to the ones in Poland, the loveliest built of
logs with two colours alternating between the logs and the caulking. There are logs and
wood everywhere with huge piles of firewood, and also beautiful mountain streams, strip
farming and lone cows. It‟s very sunny and windy and we can see for miles. We hope to
avoid getting any Slovakian money as we only expect to spend one night passing through and
have everything we need.
We come to a bleak area of felled trees with some regrowth, smooth and flat, with
hotels and restaurants for miles. This is the high Tatras, and it‟s desolate, but there are car
parks full of walkers‟ cars. Golden larches are leaving a trail of orange leaves at the edge of
the road. With virtually no other deciduous trees at this altitude they make a vivid splash of
colour. Then we‟re descending to ploughed fields, Stary Smokovec, and the city of Poprad
which is ugly and industrial with endless apartment blocks.
We notice that the farms in the area look as if they were previously collectivised. A
man is driving along the side of the road on a rotary hoe towing a tiny trailer. We go down
an avenue of beautiful trees with tiny brown leaves and black trunks. A lorry from the
Ukraine overtakes us, then we have Scots pine forests on both sides. We round a corner and
the beautiful medieval walled town of Levoca is laid out below us. It‟s all yellow and cream
buildings with orange tiled roofs, and church spires, very much like Italy. The woodpiles
beside the houses are works of art.
The town was built in the 1200s by Saxon Germans who came to mine in the area.
The town square is crammed with Rennaissance and Gothic buildings, and the decorations
and details are superb. Some have their original paintings on the exterior still visible, and we
see a painting of a knight in armour. We‟re so pleased to be in such a beautiful little town,
and even more thrilled when we discover wireless internet in the square. John manages to
tune in to the BBC on the radio. Next morning we call home on skype and walk around the
square with the laptop, showing the family the sights through the computer‟s camera.
We‟ve managed to avoid getting any Slovakian money, and next day we drive south
towards Hungary through dense Scots pine forest a hundred feet high. We need to identify
some lovely brown leafed trees with black trunks, so we stop to pick some leaves. I see a
bird of prey on a haystack some distance away so I walk into the field to get closer to it,
stepping over the remains of a deer. The bird slowly flies off, flap flap glide, flap flap glide,
and lands on the top of a tree. I think it‟s a black kite. We consult the tree book and work
out that the trees are probably Caucasian limes.
Then in the middle of the countryside we come across a car park beside a mineral
spring, and on the top of the hill, a tiny church. We stop to have a look. The police suddenly
arrive and ask for our passports. Their reaction is intense, even aggressive. “What are you
doing here?” We tell them we‟re tourists. They become quite friendly and point in the
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direction of the must see local castle. Then another police car pulls up and some very serious
armed police get out. We leave fast.
We stop at Spisski Kapitula a 13th century completely walled religious village.
There‟s a service on in the cathedral and through the open windows we can hear the sung
liturgy, beautiful gentle male voices. Since the end of Communism it‟s become a religious
community again. There‟s a sizeable vegetable garden with rich dark soil turned over. We
walk down the main street and back and pass some beaming nuns getting into their car.
We drive past Spisski Hrad a massive castle in ruins on a hilltop, but there‟s no time
to stop, we‟re on a mission to get to Romania. We pass huge barns of cattle and forests of
lime trees, and Gypsies who smile and wave. In a Gypsy settlement of squalid shacks, piles
of rubbish, and lots of tiny children, refuse is burning in a skip.
A small river has a line of plastic bags caught up in trees at flood height, and there are
huge barns from the Communist era. We drive down a valley where the hillsides are covered
in green pine and orange larch, and past more Gypsy settlements of wrecked houses, with
washing hanging outside, and smoke coming from the chimneys. The number of destitute
people we‟ve seen in this tiny part of Slovakia is high and much of the rural housing is very
poor. We‟ve also seen two more police cars. We pass a huge steelworks, fishing lakes with
canoes, campfires, shelters, boatsheds and jetties, and waterways littered with rubbish.
After a steep drive through bare beech forest we reach the city of Kosice, get lost on
the outskirts and see huge rows of ugly apartment blocks crowded on the skyline, the most
depressing ones we‟ve seen. It‟s a Sunday and we‟re shocked to see people our age out
chipping weeds and sweeping leaves with brooms on the roadside in a work gang. We pass a
steelworks and other huge factories plus posters for Vanessa Mae and Seal. Back in the
country the soil looks like it‟s been brutalised by heavy machinery. But there are abundant
birds of prey as we drive across a vast ploughed area.
Suddenly we‟re at the border crossing, the roughest we‟ve come across, with old
checkpoints and chaos, and lots of lorries. Some are parked with the drivers asleep, and there
are a couple of Russian ones parked together, with their drivers at the back sitting at a little
table covered with a red and white checked tablecloth, eating, at two in the afternoon. There
are no checks, and we drive straight into orderly Hungary.
Kiss Albert
We drive across a vast plain with a few sheep, small plots of vines on a hillside,
cemeteries decorated with flowers, and long cultivated backyards. Such order. It‟s
interesting to see a tiny cemetery in a field, unfenced, with not even a tree. There are
cabbages, cows, vast orchards, berry fruit, and lots of little smoky fires burning off stubble.
A bird of prey hovering then dropping into a ploughed field looks like a marsh harrier.
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We see a hillside of small allotments, and lots of little towns. An old lady in a head
scarf is dragging a huge log for firewood at the edge of a field. Russian and Ukrainian lorries
pass. There are transmission lines and industry everywhere. We stop at a money machine
and get cash, ten thousand forints in one note, about thirty pounds. Then we‟re at Miskolc
following the signs to Tesco. We‟re exhausted so just eat a Chinese meal in their cafe, drive
into a leafy suburban area, and find a car park near some apartment buildings. We get
straight online.
Next morning we head for the famous wine growing area of Tokaj, past two women
sitting by the side of the road selling witches‟ brooms (made of willow switches stuck onto a
stick), and baskets. There have been grapevines in Tokaj for several centuries as it has an
ideal microclimate with volcanic soil.
We drive up to the top of the highest point Tokaj Hegy, (fifteen hundred feet), via a
rough narrow road lined with tiny plots of vines with little huts. The leaves are a brilliant
yellow and some of the vines still have grapes. Then it turns into bare beech forest, and
towards the top a tiny ski field. At the very top there are huge communication transmitters
and a strong wind. The view is great but it‟s a bit obscured by the haze from all the burn offs.
A few groups of walkers come and go and a couple of car loads of parapenters keep
us entertained running down the slope in front of us, then flying in zigzags all around,
eventually coming down to land on some farm land within view. The windy conditions are
just perfect for them. Some friendly walkers who tell us they are from Debrecen give us
some grapes that they‟ve picked on their walk up the hill. The grapes are very sweet. I
manage to boil up some water and wash my hair in the back of the van in the midst of all the
excitement, and after a pleasant afternoon up there we drive down into the town of Tokaj.
The slopes of the hill near the town are covered in large plantings of vines plus scrub.
It reminds us of Central Otago in New Zealand. We park the van in a large empty car park
beside the river and walk around wondering whether to spend the night there. We hear a clip
clop and along comes a man driving his horse and cart, talking softly to the horse. He stops
and lights a lantern, hangs it on the back and sets off again. We move to a better car park
right in town and go for a walk along the main street where there are lovely old buildings,
and lots of restaurants and wine shops. We go into a grocery store and buy a bottle of the
local white wine and a bottle of red from Eger the other famous wine growing area of
Hungary. This area is famous for its sweet wines. In the night lorries roar past constantly
and a dog barks dementedly.
In the morning the sun is streaming in and there are blue tits in the tree in the garden
behind us. The backyards here remind John of the back gardens of his childhood, a bit rough
but functional with fruit trees and vegetables. At morning tea time I‟m making coffee in the
back when I hear a clip clop and along come two men on a cart with a matching pair of
chestnut horses, each with a star. We‟re parked right beside a beautiful statue of Kiss Albert
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a local hero from the 1600s with a couple of swords, no armour and a feather in his hat. His
horse is small, fine and alert with all its hooves on the ground.
The last thing we do before we leave Hungary is to take pictures of their beautiful
money, notes with images of dashing moustachioed men and birds of prey. We leave Tokaj,
crossing the Tisza River with its silver birches and willows, past a vast freshly ploughed field
gleaming in the sun, and we‟re immediately overtaken by an ancient yellow Lada.
Everything is smogged out.
We stop in Rakamaz in search of camping gas and spend our last forints on a fabulous
toaster for a camp fire, made of metal plate and mesh, and an enamel pan with two little
handles, also perfect for a fire. Then at a greengrocer I buy a little butternut and a pumpkin.
We notice that the Hungarians are very responsive and keen to make contact, unlike the Poles
who tended to be more self contained.
It‟s a smooth road with little traffic, and there are the usual old ladies in head scarves,
a herd of milking cows, hens and guinea fowls. All the way from Germany we‟ve noticed
that there have been lots of women with hennaed hair.
The hawthorns have black trunks and red berries, and rooks and crows are flying and
fossicking. As we drive into a town we see that there‟s a large market and since we‟ve got no
forints left we find a cash machine. In the car park a friendly guy gives us his pay and
display ticket.
The market has all the usual clothes, blankets, air rifles, and tools plus fruit and
vegetables, and fishing nets that would catch anything that swam. The turnips come in red,
white or black, and there‟s a sparrow walking in the pecans. We buy some beautiful big
shallots, rough garlic and little red peppers. Then it‟s Chinese food for lunch, MSG and fat,
very satisfying. I have a sudden flash of inspiration as I realise that markets always have
water so we search around and find an old hand pump to fill our water container. Busloads of
Ukrainian people are heading off laden with shopping. It‟s all very fascinating.
We set out again on a very smooth road and are amazed to see men working on the
edge spreading shingle and dirt off a lorry, then smoothing it with flat bladed wooden tools
and a witch‟s broom. They are also lopping off branches with mattocks. We drive through
flat and featureless farmland where people are burning leaves, a shepherd is moving his
sheep, and prostitutes wait beside the road.
It‟s a straight run to the Romanian border, past herds of cattle, big feedlots, stubble
fires, rubbish dumped in parking areas, an egret, a new Tesco being built in a small town,
flocks of sheep, tractors towing huge trailers of loose corn, and Romanian lorries coming at
us. We‟ve been in four countries in four days but we‟re getting better at it.
We slip into Romania very easily.
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Chapter 6 Romania
11 November – 13 December
Good Morning Romania
At 5pm I‟m sitting in the passenger‟s seat with a glass of Polish wine. The sun goes
down behind us in a blaze of red, and as darkness falls the almost full moon rises in front of
me. Clear and cold outside, it could be a frost. We‟re parked in a truck parking space just
inside Romania, beside a petrol station. There are money exchanges and restaurants spread
along the road and a constant stream of huge lorries in both directions. We‟re here for the
night and it feels very safe: plenty of activity and police.
The guards on the Romanian border laughed when I said we were from New Zealand,
then took away our passports and van ownership papers for a look. They returned them with
a smile and told us to buy a motorway pass at the petrol station. The guy in the petrol station
was charming and spoke good English. The first thing I noticed, apart from all the wine for
sale was the amazing array of chocolate: Mars, Snickers, Kinder Surprise, Toblerone, Ferrero
Rocher, Raffaello.
A wolflike dog jumps into the wire rubbish containers one at a time looking for food.
A family of Gypsies stands next to their car, the women wearing classic wide floral Gypsy
skirts.
We‟re excited to be in Romania at last. The weather is still hot during the day and we
can‟t remember when we last had rain or felt cold. On first impressions the Romanians are
very appealing, warm, open and laid back. The guide book says it has a Mediterranean feel.
Just the signs relax me as they all have familiar Romance language words, dating back to
when the Romans were here. The written and spoken language here won‟t present too much
of a barrier. We‟ve bought a motorway pass for a month.
Next day we park in the main street of Oradea, a few miles from the border, with the
traffic moving behind us and trams in front. Beyond the tram line there‟s a tree clad park. It
costs just over a pound to park all day. We explore and find an internet cafe where we can
use our laptop. The young guy there speaks great English and is happy to chat and answer all
our questions.
Coming back to the van at the end of the day is heavenly. It‟s like retreating into a
padded cell with zero stimulation and all our familiar things. Meanwhile people rush past
outside, catch the tram, talk on their phones, go home for dinner or out for the night, meeting
friends and deadlines, the things we never have to do.
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I scrutinize the new Romanian/English dictionary and the language is easier than
most. I‟ve got the basics sorted already. The phrasebook tells us how to say “This pillow
isn‟t clean”. Quite true, but in our case there‟s no-one to complain to!
John says if anyone ever asks what it‟s like on this trip tell them it‟s like living on a
double bed in a tin box in the town square. It‟s very easy for us now and we feel like we
could live this way for years.
Next morning we spend a few hours in a cafe emailing photos and chatting on skype
then retire to the back of the van for lunch and peace and quiet.
As we‟ve zigzagged eastwards from the most highly developed and wealthy countries
to the least developed and poorest we‟ve been surprised. We had imagined that it would be
more stressful, dangerous and difficult, but it‟s quite the opposite. The Eastern European
countries seem to have fewer rules, it‟s been more rural, and everyone is more laid back. The
van blends in and our riverside campfires are cool. We haven‟t felt afraid and people seem
kind and honest. Many Romanian people speak English and they often overflow with
warmth.
The cars are another story. They are the filthiest we‟ve seen. It‟s like they‟ve never
been cleaned, perhaps it‟s the pollution. Many leak oil and some belch the blackest smoke.
The local make is the Dacia, first manufactured in 1968 in association with Renault. They‟re
everywhere.
We explore the old area of Oradea where the grand secessionist style buildings date
from the early 20th century when the city was part of the Austro-Hungarian empire. Most
appear to have had no exterior maintenance since they were built, with crumbling paint and
plaster, and the odd piece falling off. The most spectacular is the Vulturul Negru (black
eagle) a hotel of several storeys with an arcade through the middle. We also visit the Moon
church, the main Orthodox Church from 1792. It has a spherical yellow moon under the
clock which rotates to show the phases of the moon (full for us). The inside of the church is
intricately painted. There was a lot of money around from mining in the early twentieth
century and it shows. A small, modest two storied building has a relief on the pediment. It‟s
of two women in robes with garlands in their hair, eating grapes.
We stop at a bar for a beer in the sun. A classic thing happens which is repeated
many times during this trip. I go inside and ask for the toilet in Romanian (toaleta). The
young barmaid replies in English – “upstairs”. The women‟s toilets are marked femeie, and
for men barbati (barbarians? bastards?).
On the way back to the van we encounter some very persistent young Gypsy children
begging, the oldest no more than ten and holding a tiny baby in her arms. We feel quite
unnerved but stand at a discreet distance to watch their modus operandi. The little girl with
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the baby approaches people, and if anyone gives her money, then the other two children
immediately advance on that person as well.
Later we set out after dark to find a place to eat, a rare occurrence on both counts as
we‟re usually tired after long and stimulating days, and keen to save money by cooking our
own food. After tramping the streets for an hour, one of the crumbling old hotels, the
Astoria, seems the best option. When we ask at the bar for the menu they take us upstairs,
along endless corridors to a dining room with just a few local men in it. The loveliest
waitress looks after us. She is fortyish, with a smattering of German and English. I order
ham and beans, John a mixed grill.
Romanian food is very heavy on meat. It‟s absolutely delicious, a rare treat.
Next day we trek south from Oradea, stopping off at a vast Carrefour (French
supermarket) to stock up on a few things, including smoked sardines which turn out to be
exceptionally dry, salty, bristly and strong. Next stop is Praktiker, an enormous hardware
store with Rod Stewart blaring forth, where we look for cooking gas. Then Baile Felix, a spa
town with ugly hotels, one with plastic palm trees. We‟re in search of a thermal pool. We
track one down at the President Hotel and have a swim in a hot indoor pool followed by a
shower. The showers are becoming scarce and we‟re grateful for every one.
When we continue our journey south on the main road the fun really starts. If we
thought Poland was exciting, Romania has mind blowing sights around every corner. Strip
farming, hens on the road, old ladies (and not so old) in headscarves, horses, old grapevines
at the front of all the houses, tethered cows, wells with buckets, geese, loose dogs, army
lorries. We take a break at a picnic area and John cooks Szechuan pork and vegetables for
two dinners. Meanwhile I struggle to make the sardines palatable for lunch. A beautiful
black German Shepherd cross adopts us and sits quietly by, waiting for treats. She loves the
French sardines. We hang our towels and swimming togs in the trees to dry in the sun.
On the road again, we round a corner and see the police and several cars pulled over.
A lorry has crashed into a house, the cab buried in a pile of rubble. Further on we see a car
with its wheels off over an improvised vehicle pit at the side of the road. The pit is just a
ditch with two concrete walls, and a guy is working in it underneath the car.
Some of the houses have the front entirely covered in beautiful coloured tiles.
Everywhere there are posters advertising suspicious looking politicians, the same the world
over. It‟s the bare unfenced rural landscape we love: an old lady working in a cabbage patch,
a shepherd with his flock, horses and carts, and two men with stout sticks watching over a
herd of twenty water buffalo, a new double cab Toyota Hilux parked nearby. A new Nissan
Navarra overtakes us.
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Further on there are sawmills and the landscape is dotted with round haystacks in the
traditional style, with a pole protruding out of the top. I‟m frustrated when the dictionary
won‟t tell me the word for hay or haystack! Hamlets fly past us one after the other, washing
lines in orchards and washing on fences, rubbish everywhere. We drive down an avenue of
walnuts and see a shepherd picking up a few while his sheep graze. Signs explain that the
EU is funding various projects. The forests are beech mixed with oak, and low Scots pine.
We pause in a village where about twenty cows are ambling down the road followed
by an old woman. Three of them go home to their different farmyards, and each has a gate
open for it. We think they must all be taken out for the day together, then delivered back
home in the afternoon.
We arrive at Beius, park, and go for a walk, discovering a place that looks like a
laundry. The dictionary confirms it, “spalatorie”, but it‟s closed at the weekend. We always
keep our eyes open for a laundry as it may be the last one we see for a while. Luckily we‟re
not too desperate yet. We haul out the laptop, get straight on line and open up the weather
forecast. Full sun for the next few days. Woodsmoke in the air. We skype our families and
hold the laptop out the window so they can hear the church bells ringing.
The night is filled with barking dogs. They all seem to live on the street and have the
same short legged father. One has made a nest of leaves on the edge of the footpath and
sleeps there for most of the day, except for trips to forage in the rubbish bins. Next morning
John helps a nun who has managed to lock herself out of her iced up car. He has to climb in
over the back seat. She rewards him with multiple blessings.
Aurel Flutur
Romanian (limba Romana) is described in the guidebook as “a Latin island in a Slav
sea”. Part of the current Romania was a Roman province from 106 to 271 AD. It was
conquered by Emperor Trajan, then Marcus Aurelius held power from 161 till 180 AD. We
come across the names Traian and Aurel frequently. Most of the vocabulary and grammar
are Latin in origin. Other influences are Slavic, Greek, Turkish and Hungarian. It‟s very
similar to Italian. It‟s is “este”, where is “unde”, entrance is “intrare”, and morning is
“dimineata”. The letters a, s and t all have two different forms, distinguished by accents
above or below.
Next morning we‟re ready for some sightseeing and set off towards Chiscau to visit a
cave with ancient bear skeletons. There are no fences, and the houses all have apple trees in
the backyards. Little Orthodox churches with silver onion dome spires gleam in the distance.
The air is hazy from burn offs and industrial pollution. The count of dog road kill is high.
We wave to people sitting outside in the sun in front of their houses. They seem much keener
to engage than the Poles and wave straight back to us.
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In Chiscau we park in the cave car park as a tractor with five men on it crawls by,
towing a trailer laden with manure and five shovels. There are old trees that look like
damsons with a few withered plums hanging and the last leaves falling. The souvenir stalls
are very tacky, and there are others where old ladies sell walnuts and fruit syrup.
We enter Pestera Ursilor the bear cave with a group of students from all over Europe
who are studying together with the Erasmus scheme in Oradea. The cave was discovered
when a worker called Traian noticed an opening while blasting at a marble quarry in 1975.
The cave turned out to contain the skeletons of one hundred and forty cave bears which died
twenty thousand years ago when an earthquake trapped them inside. We file past creamy
butterscotch and hokey pokey coloured stalactites and stalagmites, then the culmination of
the tour is a full bear skeleton laid out on the floor. It‟s the same size as a modern day bear,
with a very thick skull and long upper and lower canine teeth. The bones have turned brown
and green but the teeth are white. There‟s a scattering of coins surrounding them on the
floor.
Heading back down the road we stop at a private ethnographic museum owned by
Aurel Flutur and his wife. They have been collecting objects related to local crafts and
farming for the last forty years. There is all manner of farm equipment: an old thresher,
grindstones for flour, wooden ploughs, a shoemaker‟s tools, a little portable bread oven
which was towed by a husband and wife, looms, spinning wheels, beautiful pieces of fabric
and woollen clothing, cowbells, furniture, a smithy‟s workshop, and coalmining gear.
(Months later back home in New Zealand we discover that the museum is on youtube.)
Mr Flutur is very keen to talk and leads the way out the back to show us their house
and self sufficient farmyard. A cow is tethered, there‟s a flock of turkeys, geese, and a pond
full of fish. The house has carved wooden furniture and the walls are decorated with icons.
The kitchen is separate from the house, a large square freestanding room with a bread oven,
and food bubbling on the wood stove.
The cow barn has pride of place. It has a deep pile of beech leaves for a bed, a stack
of straw and high quality hay, and a couple of puppies asleep in the corner. The cow (vaca),
a Holstein which Mr Flutur tells us gives a lot of milk, is clearly a precious member of the
household. Mr Flutur knows a little English and German, and it‟s possible to work out a lot
of what he says in Romanian, so we have a very animated conversation. We return the
favour and show him our home in the back of the van and he‟s impressed. He tells us that
people from Romania go all over the world to work, and people come to Romania to look.
We certainly can‟t stop looking, at a rural way of life long gone in Britain and New Zealand.
Back in Beius for another night we walk up through the cemetery for a view over the
town and discover benches beside some of the graves where people can sit in contemplation.
We join the locals at one of the public taps and fill our water container. It seems to be as big
an obsession for them as it is for us, and they carry their bottles home on trolleys.
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Next morning it‟s Sunday and several different church bells are ringing. Gypsy
women walk past in their ankle length permanently pleated skirts, jumpers and headscarves.
The little girls are dressed the same but their skirts are shorter. The women are always full of
purpose. We haven‟t seen many Gypsy men but this morning they are strolling to church in a
group, wearing black suits with wide black felt hats which give them a Mexican look.
Radio Transylvania
We quit Beius and make our way back through the ghastly industrial outskirts of
Oradea. There is a vast abandoned factory with rusting pipelines, and the road is rough with
huge holes and cracks in the concrete, so we slow to seven mph along with all the lorries.
Then, oh bliss, a new road on a high plain heading towards Transylvania, past a Pentax
factory on one side and a Coca Cola factory on the other. The traffic is crazy and John
comments that they drive on a two lane highway as if it has four lanes. People are constantly
overtaking then ducking in front of us, and the approaching traffic does the same!
We stop for lunch in a picnic area and the traffic screams by as we devour our bacon,
eggs, mushrooms and tomatoes. The terrain is completely flat with distant hills in all
directions. There are little farms, huge old barns, and a couple of man-made lakes, one with a
power station. People are selling grapes and apples outside their houses and there are public
water taps everywhere. A flock of several hundred sheep, a donkey, two horses pulling a
farm cart, white sheep dogs and two shepherds come into view. The carts we see everywhere
are the same as the ones in Poland - long, wooden and narrow, with four car wheels, for
carrying manure and produce. They look very uncomfortable but quite a few people travel to
town in them.
A guy is lying on the grass in the sun watching three tethered horses and a cow. We
realise that the cute little haystacks are cunningly designed so that rather than taking the hay
inside to the animals, the animals are taken out to the haystack, and they eat their way around
it. There‟s ribbon development along the road, usually just one house deep.
The countryside becomes hilly with bracken everywhere, then we drive up through a
gorge with forest. We see a statue of an eagle with a sign in Latin “nihil sine deo”, “nothing
without God”. Some old ladies are sunning themselves and watching a cow eating. The
steep hillside is covered with brown forest. Even the leaves underneath are brown. There‟s
an enormous quarry with huge conveyors above the road. We‟re relieved to stop for the night
at a large truck stop. A friendly resident dog is feeding pups and we give her some bread and
a can of fish. We open the Tokaj wine from Hungary and it‟s syrupy, golden and smooth.
During the night the dog barks and lorries come and go.
In the morning when we set out it‟s raining and the truck stop is a sea of mud. We see
two shepherds sitting down and having their morning tea while several white dogs and a
flock of sheep wait nearby. The town of Huedin has some new unfinished brick houses four
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stories high with elaborate shiny silver roofs, gables, turrets and intricate guttering. We hear
later that they are being built by wealthy Gypsies. We stop to take photos and a man comes
to the driver‟s window to talk. We tell him we‟re from New Zealand and he points to his
stomach saying “comida”, obviously hungry. We give him ten lei and he‟s all smiles.
There‟s a strip of shops for a mile along the roadside, selling tablecloths, baskets and
woollen rugs, some of which look imported. The thing I covet (purely to possess, not to
wear) is one of the vests made of sheepskin, embroidered so beautifully, and finished off with
fabric. There are old ones on sale for eighty pounds.
A little further on when it‟s getting higher and hillier we see the aftermath of an
accident with the police and an ambulance attending. A small lorry has gone into the side of
a car and other cars are involved as well. It‟s not surprising the way motorists overtake. It‟s
rolling land that was terraced years ago with unofficial rubbish tips along the roadside. We
pass a small cart carrying four people pulled by one thin little horse and another even tinier
one.
Next stop is Cluj. We park on a hill beside the botanic gardens and walk into town to
check out the laundry and visitors centre. It‟s a very steamy old fashioned serviced laundry
with demure women sitting down working amongst vast piles of neatly ironed white bed
linen. The visitors‟ centre was opened only four months ago and the young attendant is an
absolute cracker. He‟s studied abroad and had considered continuing his study in New
Zealand but thought he was better off staying in Romania. He speaks perfect English, charms
us with his willingness to answer our many questions, and gives us a pile of glossy
publications and maps. We have a grill for dinner in a sports bar where the waiter is
delightful and a waitress makes a point of talking to us also. She tells us that she spent the
summer in New York, but she disliked the superficiality of the people and the lifestyle there,
and longed for Romania with its familiar food, and people with heart who would do anything
for you.
Next morning it‟s two degrees when we wake up but quite cosy with a blanket
hanging in the gap behind the front seats. We take our washing to the laundry and fill up on
various snacks sold in little holes in the wall, all very heavy on the pastry. Our least favourite
one consists of sauerkraut wrapped in pastry. Our next stop is the Aquina health club (with
the motto “mens sana in corpore sano” – “a healthy mind in a healthy body”) for a swim. We
have to sign a two page contract to enter. There‟s a young guy on the counter wearing a
black t-shirt with a silver fern.
John asks him if he‟s been to New Zealand and he
enthusiastically tells us he played rugby for Romania in the World Cup in Australia in 2003
but didn‟t visit New Zealand. Then we go to Agape, a traditional cafe full of men in overalls,
for mashed potato, pork stew, gravy, and a beer. It‟s a self service place where you choose
your meal from a bain-marie. The food is absolutely delicious and there‟s a constant stream
of customers.
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Around the main square of Cluj there are circular stalls selling second hand books.
We need to give away our Hungarian and Polish road atlases and guidebooks so we approach
a guy on a stall and offer them to him. It turns out that he‟s been to New Zealand. We have a
chat and he asks if there is anything he can do to help us. He has a spare room. Would we
like to stay? We decline his kind offer. We‟re just a little too comfortable in the van, and a
bit nervous about security.
A small river of grey and frothing water runs through Cluj. Bubbles rise to the
surface and there‟s a horrible sulphurous smell. Clearly some kind of chemical reaction is
going on. There is a huge hole in the footpath where a manhole cover is broken and no
barricades or signs. The “mind the gap” culture is nonexistent here. We see a couple of
people getting around with white canes; it must be very challenging.
The English sections in two of the bookshops have excellent selections of
contemporary and classic fiction and nonfiction in very cheap editions. I buy “Little Dorrit”.
There are old ladies in headscarves but also some very elegant older women, all hair dye and
fur coats, some even complete with dogs, who could be straight out of Paris. Walking home
in the main square on a cold dark evening, we come across a tiny bent elderly lady selling
some ratty chrysanthemums, essentially begging. We give her twenty lei (four pounds) and
shortly afterwards two young cops aggressively move her along. We often watch people
begging to see how the locals treat them. Not surprisingly, many give this old lady money.
After two nights with cars speeding past my head, shaking the van, I can‟t take any
more and we move to a quieter street. Nothing runs smoothly though and in the evening a
guy drives up and tells us that we‟re in his park. We don‟t argue. Later we tune in to the
local station Radio Transylvania and it plays the usual familiar pop music.
Cluj used to be part of Hungary and there are lots of signs in Hungarian. Seventy
thousand students live here and it shows with young people everywhere. We speak to a guy
from Mauritius and some young women from Sweden. The town square is bursting with wifi
cafes.
Next morning it‟s minus two in the van. Butane gas struggles to burn at this
temperature so we‟re always on the lookout for a mixture of propane/butane as propane will
burn at very low temperatures. This morning it takes a while to make toast out of the
delicious thick white bread. We walk into town to the tiny Flowers cafe which sells only
coffees and teas and has a clientele of young people who all smoke. The morning disappears
in a happy daze of skyping and emailing photos.
After lunch we visit the Ethnographic Museum which has a superb display of the
traditional life and craft of the local people. We‟re fascinated by the wooden felting
machines, butter churns, fishing nets, traps for wolves, bears and martins, looms, religious
items, masks, bed linen, clothing, and all manner of ingenious inventions made out of wood.
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The traditional masks are made of skins and fabric, very macabre. The staff are kind and
motherly women. In the shop they bustle around checking off the latest load of local
handcrafts and having a good gossip.
Not accustomed to buying souvenirs, we agonise over the treasure trove of textiles
and ceramics and end up buying a good selection. We‟re thrilled with our purchases and it
gives us a new challenge, how to store the pottery in such a limited space. It‟s amazing how
many things can be hung from the walls of the van. By the time we get back to the UK we‟ll
hardly be able to move for hanging bags. We pick up our beautifully washed and ironed
laundry and walk back up the hill like a couple of packhorses. We‟re pretty fit. John has lost
lots of weight but I wouldn‟t say the same about me. He‟s more of a thoroughbred,
responding to the stress of the constant driving.
As in Oradea the buildings in the old part of Cluj are beautiful: ancient churches,
crumbling old hotels, a fabulous theatre, the restored 15th century Tailors‟ Bastion in the
corner of the old city walls (which the tailors defended), and a lovely small statue of St
George on horseback slaying the dragon, made in the 14th century by two local sculptors, a
copy of the one at Prague Castle. Many inner city streets have names which show a French
influence: Strada Louis Pasteur and Strada Emil Zola are obvious ones. Further out the usual
forests of high rise apartments, factories and industrial sites abound.
It‟s very cold next morning so we idle the engine with the heater on. After breakfast
we drive off and disappear in a cloud of exhaust smoke like the new Pope has been chosen!
John turns a whiter shade of pale. We decide that it was probably the prolonged idling that
allowed oil to sneak into the cylinders. We decide not to use the heater again on cold
mornings.
We visit the botanic gardens which have some lovely old trees and a few jays busily
pecking in the undergrowth. A worker is gathering autumn leaves into a basket using his
hands. The leaves are piled over pots in the cold frames for winter insulation.
On our way out of town we call into Carrefour to stock up. We find the special blue
windscreen washer liquid that works to minus thirty. We‟ve been puzzling about antifreeze
and whether the van needs topping up, even though it has coped with several minus eight
frosts back in Surrey. By good fortune there‟s a young guy also browsing the antifreeze aisle
who turns out to be an expert. He explains everything very well and we decide that we don‟t
need to top it up as what‟s there will work for years. The supermarkets have tables at the deli
counter where people stand and eat. We consume some of the local delicacies, mainly
consisting of mushrooms in various guises, then set off late in the afternoon, south towards
Turda (pronounced Torda).
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Time Out At The Turda Truck Stop
We discover a large truck stop on the outskirts of Turda, high above the road,
complete with a resident dog feeding pups. We open a can of sardines for her and throw her
some bread. A guy saunters up to the cab and asks for money. Thinking he‟s the guard John
hands over ten lei, but is gobsmacked when he trousers it and walks off with a grin from ear
to ear! When the real guard approaches we don‟t take much notice of him until we realise
who he is. John hurriedly communicates with him in sign language and it‟s fine for us to stay
for the night.
A flock of goats goes past with their bells clanging. A lorry pulls up near us followed
by a car. After some discussion, the lorry driver siphons some diesel from the lorry into the
car, money changes hands, and they both drive off! In the morning our van is surrounded by
lorries. John visits the daytime guard in his kiosk and he says we can stay for no charge if we
have a meal at the restaurant.
We‟re beside a large garage, three petrol stations, and a busy road with constant
traffic twenty four hours a day. Some of the houses are near derelict with dirt roads leading
up to them. I spend the entire day in the van reading “Little Dorrit”, washing my hair and
writing on the laptop. John plans our next few days driving, sorts out things in the van, and
reads “The Lucifer Effect : How Good People Turn Evil” by Philip Zimbardo, which
describes how people are driven to bad acts through the conditions they find themselves in,
based on the 1960s Stanford University Prison Experiment. He bought it in Krakow. We‟re
finding it impossible to ignore the centuries of mayhem in Europe, and decided some time
ago to try and seek some explanation of how ordinary people do such horrible things to each
other.
The park holds about forty lorries and it‟s in demand at night when they all back in to
park tightly together with only inches to spare. The new night guard asks us to move to a
different section to free up more space. Later we eat a delicious dinner in the restaurant,
watch footy on TV, and have a peaceful night‟s sleep.
Next morning John has a long conversation with the daytime guard who has little
English but conveys a lot of information. He once had a holiday at the Danube Delta and
spent the week catching and eating fish and it was fabulous.
We set off for Sighisoara in sleet which turns into snow. A lot of the vehicles coming
towards us are covered. I look up the word for snow in the dictionary – zapada. Next to the
word for snot – muci! We drive past huge factories, a power station, an aluminium smelter,
conventional hay barns, lots of people walking in the snow, and an old lady hitchhiking. The
brown landscape is dissolving into white. Suddenly a lorry stops in the middle of the road in
front of us and we come to a grinding halt with only inches to spare. We‟re shaken up but it
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turns out to be our only near miss in thousands of miles. We see a little Dacia station wagon,
its back seat filled with bags, and sacks of walnuts four deep tied on the roof! There are lots
of very old Dacias still on the road plus new models as well.
We‟re in hillier country now with deep snow but fortunately the snow plough is out.
People are driving fast with no chains. The conifers are beautiful with snow covered
branches, and the deciduous trees are bare. In the middle of nowhere Gypsies are selling
strings of red onions by the roadside. Dogs are everywhere and we spot a kestrel plus a big
flock of yellow birds. We pass a skifield just before Sighisoara, a completely walled Saxon
(German) town with many buildings from the 14th century. As the snow falls more heavily
we find a car park outside the city walls. I make a pot of pork, leek, mushroom and
applesauce stew, and then we climb into bed for a couple of hours sleep.
At about four in the afternoon we get up and go for a walk. It‟s a wonderland from a
Dickensian Christmas card! Snow covers everything including the branches of trees. The
buildings are tall and old, with narrow alleyways. A little boy on a rooftop tosses snowballs
at us. We throw some back. Romanian teenagers seem to be on holiday. We hunt around for
a pub that might show the All Blacks vs Wales rugby game. Sometimes a friendly barman
will oblige with a Sky channel, but no joy today. Everything is freezing. The few cars that
come into the car park crunch over the ground. Our night is disturbed by people walking
home past the van and boy racers doing wheelies on the ice in the car park! We peep out the
back window aghast and will them to lose interest and go somewhere else!
In the morning there‟s some ice on the inside of the van but it‟s not too bad. After a
morale boosting breakfast of toast with ham and mustard we head to a lovely warm cafe with
wifi. We‟re beginning to wonder whether the winter will force us straight down to Greece,
leaving Turkey till later. The painted monasteries of northern Romania are definitely out.
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Casa Medievala
On our last night in Sighisoara we explore the walled part of the old city and the
bastions, where each tower was built and defended by a different guild of craftspeople. We
climb up the Scholars‟ Steps, built about three hundred years ago to make it easier for
children to walk to school on the upper level. There are one hundred and seventy nine steps
plus landings, with walls, and a roof covering the walkway. The surrounding landscape is
blanketed with snow, and all the surfaces in town are also covered. We never planned on
being in such cold temperatures but we have enough merino and possum clothes, and hats,
gloves and scarves with us.
Back in the car park we find three Gypsy children still begging. The two boys have
scarves tied around their heads and the little girl has a very old face. We give the girl a
packet of biscuits. The mother is sitting on a park bench some distance off and taking the
money they collect. As we drive from the car park to a quiet suburban street there are a
couple of horse and cart combinations heading home. One horse has a matted mane and both
are being driven really hard. Gyspy horses often wear red tassels on their harness, a
traditional talisman. We put the gas bottles up the front by the heater to warm up. There are
long icicles everywhere.
Next morning it‟s minus three and the gas won‟t flow so it‟s bread and Marmite for
breakfast. There‟s ice on both sides of the windscreen, on the uncarpeted parts of the ceiling
at the back, and in the water bottles! We drive out through depressing areas of old apartment
blocks. The Medieval centres of these towns are invariably surrounded by modern shops and
houses then acres of ugly apartment buildings. The van smokes again after idling to defrost
the windscreen and those cold fingers of worry creep in on us again.
It‟s the most perfect sunny day and there‟s snow as far as the eye can see, on the plain
we‟re crossing and the hills that slope down to it. Cows are being driven out of old stone
barns to be fed outside in the snow. A goatherd is minding a couple of hundred goats. A
brown and white bird of prey is standing in the snow. We see a farmer with a flock of sheep
with long tails and his half dozen dogs are scavenging through the rubbish bins at a picnic
area. High stone walls surround fortified Saxon churches. The Saxons, who were invited to
come from Germany as colonists in the 12th Century, built these fortified churches to
withstand sieges. The invaders were Tatars, and later Turks. After the fall of Communism in
1990, most of the Saxons returned to Germany.
The snow clad mountains are beautiful. As vehicles pass, snow is blown from the
bare branches of beech trees. Signs drip with icicles. We pull up for a major pit stop in the
pass at Bogata, make coffee and wash the dishes. On the road again we drive past workers
moving logs with a skidder in the snow. Tractors are pulling logs for firewood up steep
slopes. The smooth wide highway is full of lorries. We go through a series of massive
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hairpins then come across a flock of sheep. The shepherd is wearing a full length sheepskin
cloak with the six inch fleece to the outside. The fleeces on the sheep are tangled with burrs.
In Maierus the tiny rough houses look like they belong to Gypsies. We‟re driving on
a big plain with pale blue snow covered hills in the distance. Two men are travelling the
other way in a cart pulled by a very lame little horse. We see a kestrel, semi frozen fishing
lakes, crows by the hundred, and as usual magpies everywhere. Spindrift is blowing off the
tops of a steep mountain range. Surprisingly we pass a massive factory.
Suddenly we‟re in Brasov with dirty grey snow piled up three feet high on each side
of the road. There are huge ugly apartment blocks crammed in for miles. We go to a
Kaufland supermarket to stock up for a few days. Its enormous car park is covered in snow.
Then we head out to Darste because the guidebook says the camping ground has cabins. The
camp is closed and Bran which is twenty miles to the south is suggested as an option. We
retrace our steps through Brasov, the mountain recreation capital of Romania. It has famous
old buildings but we just see hideous suburbs of apartments and people trudging through the
snow. There are snow covered trees dotted around including rowans with big bunches of red
berries. We‟re eating coconut chocolates from the supermarket, tired, hungry and desperate
to find a haven for the night.
After Brasov we enter a plain with deep snow except for the road which has been
ploughed. A strong wind blows spindrift across the road in the sun. Some horses are towing
a cart with a large load of hay. The driving is treacherous if you venture off the cleared
middle of the road as the edge is completely snow covered. No-one has chains on.
John suddenly notices that the temperature gauge has gone right to the top so we pull
off to the side as best we can and lift the bonnet. The engine is not boiling or overheating.
It‟s very puzzling. We decide to keep going but stop another couple of times and keep the
heater on full. The engine is still not overheating and we continue to Bran, past skifields,
mountains and holiday towns.
We‟re very relieved when we get there and park in the main street. The young guy
we pay for parking reaches out and zips John‟s jumper up to his chin in a very touching
gesture. We‟ve forgotten to put our coats on and we must look a bit wretched. Walking back
down the main street we find a pension, Casa Medievala, with parking in an enclosed front
yard and a very pleasant woman sweeping the snow. She tells us it‟s one hundred lei a night
(twenty pounds) and there‟s a kitchen. We have the place to ourselves, a refuge in the snow.
It feels like some kind of turning point as we realise that we‟ve been living in the van for 4
months.
Inside the front door of Casa Medievala the main room has a six foot high traditional
tiled corner fireplace (with an oven). In the middle of the room is a huge table with tree
trunks one foot in diameter for legs and seating for at least twelve people. The chairs are
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made out of thick saplings. The table is laid with a linen cloth, plates and cutlery. It also has
two carved bowls made from what looks like the trunk of a walnut tree. Fake medieval
weapons and beautiful old carved wooden spoons similar to Welsh love spoons hang on the
walls. Two smaller tables are thick slabs of wood. The base of one consists of a single tree
trunk fifteen inches in diameter with six radiating branches each cut to one foot, so the table
top is supported by a squat little tree. The floors are polished wood with traditional woven
woollen mats. There‟s a sideboard with crockery and everything else for a large number of
guests plus a little kitchen with everything we need. Upstairs there are bedrooms with en
suites and mountain views. A woven woollen rug leads up the middle of the polished
wooden stairs and there are sheepskins on the floors and chairs. The beds and furniture are
made from thick tree trunks and saplings.
We luxuriate in it all and discover that there are lots of TV channels including Euro
sport, and even some in English. Next morning we call the owner and she gives the phone to
her daughter who speaks English. I ask about washing our clothes. She says to put our
laundry outside in a bag and a lady will wash it, no extra charge. The problem with the van‟s
temperature gauge is hanging over us and I ask where to find a mechanic. She tells us there‟s
one fifty yards along the road and John goes to see him with diagrams and hopefully all the
appropriate words written in Romanian on a piece of paper. He can‟t do the work but says to
try the auto electrician just by the church.
We do a few trips back and forth to the van for food and clothes to last a few days in
case it has to spend time in the garage, then walk into town to find the auto electrician. John
brings out the diagram and the Romanian words. Yes he can fix it, bring the van in now. We
gratefully oblige.
Standing in the snow the guy looks under the bonnet with a couple of older helpers.
After a few commands of “Contact! No contact!” to John in the driver‟s seat, he shows us
that a wire connected to the temperature gauge has worn, fixes it and asks for thirty lei (six
pounds). His friends are jubilant and each gives an explanation in Romanian. We hand the
auto electrician fifty lei and he initially wants to give change but John says “Have a beer!”
and he replies with a grin “Ten beers!”
Thank goodness we kept going and didn‟t succumb to panic and call for help on the
drive in. Hugely relieved we go to the tiny hardware shop next door and each buy a pair of
shiny blue Wellington boots. We desperately need them with the slushy snow and water
running everywhere. The guy serving John is so pleased with the exchange that he shakes
him by the hand with a big smile. We just love the Romanians. They are so warm and
unaffected.
We spend the afternoon reading and John names photos on the laptop, listens to music
and plays Solitaire. If the van is the mother ship the laptop is the life support. We store our
photos on it, I type emails on Word, and when we manage to get online we send and receive
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emails, and chat and make phone calls on skype. We keep it hidden under the seat, and
charge the battery with an inverter plugged into the cigarette lighter. It‟s enhanced our travel
enormously.
I cook chicken stew with mushrooms and pull out a packet of instant dumpling mix
from Poland. The snow is thawing and the guttering off the roof streams all day. From our
bedroom we look to the east onto the steep Bucegi Mountains with the highest peak eight
thousand feet. The clouds over the mountains are constantly changing. There‟s a drama
unfolding on the TV news with an avalanche in that area and two tourists missing. Rescuers
are probing the snow with sticks, and rescue dogs are helping as well. We never hear the
outcome.
Casa Medievala has a large flat backyard with old apple trees. We see great tits,
fieldfares, magpies, crows and jays. Bran Castle is visible from the front door. There is also
a covered barbecue area and best of all a circular summer house with a table and chairs. The
interior walls are covered with beautiful woven woollen rugs. A pity it‟s too cold to eat out
there.
On our second day things are thawing and the roads and footpaths are streaming from
piles of slushy snow. The following day it snows heavily again. We just read and take it
easy. We venture out in the middle of the day in search of an internet cafe but no joy. It‟s a
tourist centre, mainly because Bram Stoker‟s Dracula was set in Bran Castle which is in the
middle of town and beautiful today in the snow. Tacky souvenir stands are everywhere. I
buy a bowler hat off a chap who looks like a farmer, selling astrakhan hats, sheep‟s cheese,
and mutton which he slices off on the table in front of him. There are only a couple of little
shops and nowhere to buy food.
Then I discover that the Wolf supermarket is back on the road into town. John goes
home and I walk to the supermarket. When I get back I see that Stella the owner of Casa
Medievala has turned up with a TV crew. John has already been interviewed and they want
to interview me. I pull off my coat and hat and try to look less dishevelled, and then I‟m
answering questions in front of the camera about why we came here and what we like about
Romania. It‟s not difficult but I wonder if we are quite the kind of tourists Stella wants to
attract! Anyway the film crew leaves and we have a quick talk to Stella who hugs us both.
She seems very entrepreneurial. I notice when she‟s gone that she has left some Christmas
lilies in a vase on the table and the perfume is fabulous.
Next day we take the van for a drive up the road to make sure it goes OK after first
scraping then melting a vast quantity of ice on the windscreen. The snowploughs are on the
go constantly and people are shovelling and sweeping everywhere. The footpaths are too
slushy to walk on and even school children and old people are walking on the road dodging
the lorries. Men are digging ditches, and putting roofs on buildings. We go to the
supermarket and John asks if they have any empty wine boxes as we need to replace the ones
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we use as a pantry behind the driver‟s seat. The guy brings out full boxes of wine! Clearly
tourists never usually ask for empty boxes.
There are dogs on the cadge everywhere, often bitches with pups. The horse and cart
combinations we‟ve seen in Bran have been a pleasing example of harmony where the drivers
have kind hands and the horses‟ heads are at a comfortable height. It‟s a rare sight.
The tele comes up trumps with a repeat of the New Zealand vs Australia league final,
Oprah, the World FEI show jumping from Stuttgart, and a series of New Zealand
programmes about survival, where brave hunters recount their struggles to stay alive with
horrendous injuries in the bush. I make mashed potatoes from real potatoes, and mashed
carrots. Life is sweet. A temperature of minus nine is predicted overnight. The guard in the
truck stop told John that minus twenty nine is common.
We plan our next moves: first of all to quit this alpine area when we feel rested, then
to head to the Danube Delta and down the Black Sea coast. Places we‟ve talked about for so
long.
Crossing the Danube
Next day we get the bum‟s rush from Casa Medievala as Stella has a large number of
new guests arriving. We have about an hour to pack up and fortunately we‟ve already sorted
out the van so it‟s not too bad. It‟s a glorious day and we set out about midday, back through
Brasov then south into the mountains. It‟s the Friday of their big holiday weekend for 1
December, the Romanian national celebration of being one country. The road is full of
lorries and it‟s lined with steep hillsides covered in beautiful tall snow covered tsuga trees.
There are amazing alpine scenes, and cold looking people selling honey on the roadside. We
go past a WW1 cemetery and pass through the outskirts of Sinaia.
As we head downhill the snow disappears. Bumper to bumper traffic heads north,
people getting away from Bucharest for the holiday weekend. We‟ve already decided not to
visit Bucharest with its excesses from the Ceausescu era. We pass beautiful old houses with
carved and painted balconies like the ones in Poland. Then the landscape changes completely
and we‟re travelling on a fantastic motorway across prairie land, with huge bright green fields
of new crop beside big stock barns and silos.
When we turn east near Poiesti there‟s chaos with lorries and buses driving down the
wrong side of the road and a car on the footpath. Then we see a horse and cart on the
motorway. At Chitorani there are vineyards and bags of grapes, cabbages and perfect yellow
quinces for sale. The road is completely flat and straight for miles. The soil is beautiful and
black. A dead animal by the roadside looks like a fox but John says it has a face like a cat.
We learn later that they have an animal called a wild cat that size. Then we drive through
Mizil and the side streets are mud. We‟re travelling north east with a flamingo pink sun in a
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ball behind us. The road is an avenue of walnut trees. We park next to a Turkish lorry at a
truck stop near Stalpu which has showers and a laundry. We have a meal in the restaurant
before climbing into the back of the van for the night.
Next day we head through heavily industrialised Buzau. We see the usual new and
abandoned factories, and a steelworks. There are always dead dogs by the roadside and stray
dogs hanging around every car park. Then it‟s farm land vast and flat with no fences. The
enormous feedlot and silo complexes contrast with the horses, carts, and shepherds with their
flocks. Strip farming and market gardening flourish on the black loamy soil.
We stop at a level crossing for a train that‟s a long time coming. Cars are pulled up
on both sides and people occupy themselves by looking under their bonnets and tinkering
with their engines. Four dogs are begging and we feed one.
Some of the houses look poor and derelict yet there‟s washing on the line. Some have
satellite dishes as well. Out on the vast empty plain the occasional shepherd‟s yards have
teepees made from cornstalks. The road is lined with bare trees the entire way. Some people
are gathering firewood with two horses and carts. The horses are contentedly eating grass,
coats thrown over their backs to keep them warm. We spot a flock of birds in the distance
and stop to look with the binoculars. They‟re geese. We‟re getting near the Delta.
The towns often have no footpaths, just mud, huge abandoned factories, and
crumbling apartment blocks. There are oil wells with pumps everywhere. We see a woman
driving a horse and cart, a first. All the backyards are full of mud, with poultry and stacks of
cornstalks. Signs tell us that various projects are financed by the EU. We see mobile
irrigation sprayers and a helicopter. This is the first time we‟ve seen agribusiness in
Romania. Surprisingly some trees are still in leaf: willows and chestnuts.
We arrive in Braila and stop at a massive new Carrefour. In the car park we talk to a
young couple who tell us the election is at the weekend but they won‟t be voting because
there is so much corruption among the politicians. Unemployment benefits are very low as
are pensions and it‟s a constant struggle for people. Many want to emigrate to Australia or
New Zealand but it costs a lot of money and takes a long time. We park in a car park in
town, get straight online and listen to the rugby on New Zealand‟s Radio Sport.
Next morning it‟s foggy. A hearse drives by and it has “Memento Mori” painted on
the side. We drive around some of Braila to charge the laptop. Beside the Danube River it‟s
a huge mess of abandoned industrial buildings, mud, dogs, dead rats, and rubbish. Some
parts are being renovated but in general the buildings are crumbling. We get the feeling that
there‟s no money for the most basic infrastructure. Everywhere people are trudging through
the mud. Why are there so many dogs? We drive down to where the ferry crosses the river
(there seem to be no bridges) and decide to cross to the other side today.
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On the east bank of the river the houses and farmsteads are poor. It looks like a
purely subsistence existence. We stop by the side of the road and see a forest of poplars with
the roots buttressed from growing in wet conditions. Then there are vineyards, often with no
trellises holding up the vines. It‟s a flood plain with ditches, and the road is on a higher level.
We drive down an avenue of walnuts. A guy drives his horse and cart flat out downhill on tar
seal. As always, shepherds and their flocks creep across the landscape. The country reminds
us of Central Otago with its rocky hills and worked terraces. The fog clears and we‟re in the
sun and what do we see? More rubbish and stray dogs! A Humvee is parked outside a house.
There are fences made of reeds which look like bamboo. Luncavita is a nice little town
where people are out walking, very Russian looking with fur hats and big coats. The Ukraine
is just across the river.
Then we‟re above thousands of acres of reeds, like a vast golden wheat field. They‟re
in flower, eight feet tall, like skinny pampas grass. It‟s a captivating landscape. We also see
a narrow lake with reeds on both shores, so beautiful. Every roof is made of reeds, and every
shed has reed walls as well.
At Isaccea the Ukraine is just a stone‟s throw away. There‟s a building made of mud
bricks, and tiny carts pulled by ponies. A couple of expensive motor boats on trailers pass us
going the other way. We drive down an avenue of oak trees that goes on for miles and the
fog descends again. It must be off the Danube. We see a stunted oak forest with cows
grazing underneath. The sun comes out and there are little beech trees and hawthorn with
berries. A bridge is being renovated, with plastic over the concrete, and bundles of reeds
holding the plastic down. Reed boats are pulled up on a lake shore. The countryside is
terraced and in grass.
People are always hitchhiking, not with the thumb, just waving the palm of the hand.
We‟re far too cautious to pick anyone up. We reach the outskirts of Tulcea past massive
steelworks and pipelines, then find a park right beside the ferry wharf. It‟s a perfect spot.
We go for a walk and John is amazed at the scaffolding on buildings – just random planks
nailed together.
On our second day in Tulcea we check out the Natural History Museum. There‟s a
display of stuffed birds from the Delta, a stuffed raccoon dog, and an aquarium with carp,
perch, and sturgeons which are skinny and elaborately patterned. They come to lay their eggs
in the Danube in August and September. Some are caught and the eggs taken for caviar.
The car park is very pleasant. Taxis spend a lot of time there. When the drivers have
to move up the queue they get out and push the taxi to the next position. All along the wharf
area in front of us, ferries and other boats come and go. We‟re amazed that expensive motors
are left on small boats. People must be very honest. We try to work out which of the three
branches of the Danube we should explore by ferry and end up choosing the Sulina arm.
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It‟s very hard leaving our precious van and all our gear in the car park for a couple of
nights. But we catch a fast ferry to Sulina, travelling the seventy five kilometres in ninety
minutes. The windows are cloudy and you can‟t go on deck so we don‟t see as much as we
would have liked. The passengers are all locals, very Russian looking with high cheekbones.
They‟ve been to Tulcea to do their shopping and the boat is packed with those large red,
white and blue striped bags used by poor people everywhere. The Danube is blue, there‟s no
driftwood, but always plastic flotsam and jetsam. We see donkeys pulling a cart,
transmission lines, trees with exposed roots, houses with reed roofs and satellite dishes, logs
on barges, little skinny black boats pointed at both ends, and little jetties. A ship passes us
heading upstream. Cattle and herds of horses are grazing. Reeds are growing out of the water
and a big bird of prey is cruising above them.
At Sulina we find the Perla Pension which has wifi! We take a room on the second
floor looking straight out on the river and all the action. It‟s a frontier town. There are men
in boats everywhere just like in Venice. The temperatures are in double figures.
Water For Chocolate
The Danube Delta covers four thousand square kilometres of reeds and marsh and the
guidebook describes it as the youngest, least stable landscape in Europe. Every year forty
million tonnes of alluvium are dumped into it. Fishing communities have lived here for
centuries, including Lipovani, blonde haired Russians who came here in the 1700s to escape
religious persecution. Ceausescu, the notoriously repressive Communist leader from 1969 to
1989, planned to drain it for agriculture. After the revolution in 1990 it was declared a
Biosphere Reserve, with five hundred square kilometres strictly protected, and in 1991 a
UNESCO World Heritage Site. It‟s a very important area for birds, particularly when they
migrate in autumn and spring. It also has wolves, bears, mink and otters, and forests of oak,
poplar, ash and willow. There are three main channels from Tulcea to the Black Sea, and a
maze of canals, lakes and swamps. In the summer it‟s plagued with mosquitoes and horse
flies. According to the guidebook the Cousteau Foundation has a base at Uzlina where the
Biosphere Reserve has an information centre in Ceausescu‟s former hunting lodge.
Apparently Sulina was described as a port by a Byzantine scribe in 950 AD and it‟s
been one ever since. Currently the population is five thousand, but Sulina‟s best years are
clearly in the past. A promenade runs for a mile along the river‟s edge, and ferries, plus the
little motor boats with fancy outboards so loved by the men, are tied up everywhere. There is
no road access, so there are just a few vehicles, with rundown houses, pensions, restaurants
and food shops. Dogs are sprawled everywhere in the sun. The three main streets are called
Strada 1, 2 and 3 - very Communist and dehumanising; shades of Kapka Kassabova‟s book
“Street Without a Name” about growing up in Sofia, Bulgaria in apartment block 328, and
going to school 81. We have dinner in the pension restaurant – fish roe on toast with red
onion, followed by carp cooked in a stock with tomatoes and peppers. Delicious, but bony
and expensive. At night the town is completely blanketed in fog.
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Next day we go on foot in search of the Black Sea, stopping off at the cemetery which
has Jewish, Turkish, Orthodox and Anglican sections. In the tiny Anglican section the graves
are mostly of drowned sailors from the mid 1800s. One is from North Shields, another from
South Shields, and one from Hull. There are also some English children who died of typhoid,
and an English man who “died from the effects of climate”. One has the inscription “Boy,
erected by his shipmates”. An old horse drawn hearse with large carved wooden angels on
top is being given a spruce up by the sexton.
We walk across the salt marsh which has grass and grazing cows, past some new
houses, and we‟re at the beach. The Black Sea at last, four months after heading inland from
Dunkirk. We‟re thrilled to have come so far. It‟s very sandy and there‟s even a tower for the
lifeguards. I find a couple of black ram‟s horn shells. The river mouth which the ships
navigate is far away. A dead raccoon dog, just like the one we saw at the museum in Tulcea,
lies on the road.
After a couple of nights at Sulina we catch the ferry back to Tulcea with the Beatles
on the radio, and lots of locals, one with an outboard motor under his arm. Back at the car
park our precious van is safe and sound. We take our washing to the laundry and I get a bit
worked up when the young woman starts picking our clothes out of the bag and laying them
on the counter, charging for each item separately. The combination of seeing our knickers
spread out along the counter and the escalating cost pushes a few of my buttons. John calms
me down, and they get the boss, who works out a much better price based on the weight. We
pay up and leave. At the market we buy garlic, carrots, parsnips and spinach, and some flat
bread that we gnaw on as we sit in the park with all the old men in their fur hats. Three
Gypsy children stride past with sacks of empty bottles over their shoulders, on a mission.
We head off to the Ethnographic Museum where a helpful young man gives us a tour.
There‟s an exhibition about some of the twenty different ethnic groups who‟ve lived in the
area: Romanians, Turks, Tatars, Italians, Greeks, Slavs, Bulgarians, Lipovani. All are
distinguished by their religion, but many of their handcrafts appear very similar to our eyes.
Our guide tells us that the people in the Delta are Slavs and speak half Russian and half
Romanian. He says the houses are often made of clay which is mined from twenty feet under
the sand. Since the metalwork factories closed down many people are unemployed and
subsist only. They are allowed to catch ten kilos of fish per day. He tells us that most of the
locals opposed the creation of the Biosphere Reserve as it hasn‟t brought any benefit to them
at all. In its heyday, Sulina was a thriving free port, a bit like Amsterdam today.
Next we visit the Museum of Archaeology and History where there are artefacts
dating back to the 11th century BC. We see ceramics, jewellery and daggers, plus lots of
Roman, Turkish and Byzantine coins. Everything has been found within a fifty kilometre
radius of Tulcea. The town is quite Turkish in some parts with a mosque from the middle of
the 19th century, and there are mosques in several villages. We walk back along the river and
see a ship being moved by two tugs from the ship building yard. A tiny ferry bringing people
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from the other side of the river sets off at an incredible lean. The bottom is fouled and it
doesn‟t look seaworthy. Some passengers have parked their horse and cart near the jetty on
the other side.
I visit the Delta Biosphere office and buy licences to enter protected areas. It seems
very casual and they don‟t appear to have any requirements for visitors but we want to be
legit. I also pass a fish shop which smells and has heaps of small fish in a pile under the glass
counter, selling for fifty pence a kilo. Fishing gear, boats and outboards are for sale
everywhere.
The following day we drive a little way out of town and park on a hill to watch the
birds over an area of reeds and wetland. A peregrine falcon flies over the top of us. There is
also a herd of goats with goatherds. A donkey trots past pulling a cart of cabbage leaves. A
Gypsy family going to town with their horse and cart slow down when I wave and a young
boy runs back and comes up to the window. I give him a few lei and he beams then races
back to the cart and jumps over the back while it‟s moving.
We arrive in Malcoci looking for water. There are public water pumps beside the
road and we stop and try a couple but no water comes out. I notice a woman over the fence
beckoning to me. Then her neighbour comes out waving and indicates in sign language that
she can give us water. I carry the container to her front yard and she insists on holding it
under the garden tap then helps me to carry it back to the van. John gets out to thank her and
she clasps both his hands in hers and looks into his eyes with intense goodwill and happiness.
It‟s an emotional moment. She would be in her fifties, neatly dressed with a headscarf, and a
lovely kind face. You can only imagine what difficulties she has experienced in her life. We
feel quite overwhelmed.
The Delta being such a birdwatchers‟ paradise, we‟re keen to see some unfamiliar
birds so next day we head to Murighiol. We park beside Lake Saraturii, after driving along a
sandy track. There are a couple of flocks of sheep in the distance, each with a shepherd, a
rubbish dump on a hill with a low fence around it, and plastic bags being blown all over the
countryside. The shepherds are quietly moving their flocks along, letting the sheep graze on
the very meagre plants. One of them casually heads towards the van and John waves to him.
He comes to the window and they communicate a bit without words; how many dogs he has
and such like. He asks John for a cigarette. I‟m in the back making coffee and since we
don‟t smoke I suggest we give him some chocolate. John hands him a block of caramelised
hazel nut, our favourite. He stands looking at it, turning it over in his hands, then indicates
with a chopping motion that he‟ll share it with his friend. He walks towards the other
shepherd some distance away, turns, and blows John a kiss. We love the Romanians.
We‟re excited to see a hen harrier, red breasted geese, and swans. A car appears in
the distance. It‟s the ranger and he tells us we‟ve driven too far along the track to the lake
and we must leave. No mention of our passes.
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Our next destination is the Roman ruin at Halmyris which was continuously inhabited
from the 6th century BC to the 7th century AD. Two Christians from Asia Minor (Turkey),
Epictet and Astion, were tortured and executed there in 290 AD after refusing to renounce
Christianity. Excavations uncovered their crypt in 2001. The site we walk around covers
two hectares and apparently the excavation has only just begun. We‟re shocked that there are
no restrictions at all and it would be easy to souvenir pieces of stone or tiles.
Later we find a car park with a guard in a little hut. We spend two nights there in the
rain. Stray dogs hang around outside and we read all day long. I make girdle scones.
Thoroughly rested we head south past various lakes and waterways, spotting a male
hen harrier as we drive past Lake Saraturii. There are huge ploughed fields, young crops,
cows and sheep outside, vast abandoned factory farms, and strip farming. We cross a plain
through an avenue of walnut trees, followed by an avenue of poplars with the trunks
completely covered in moss and lichen. The houses are white plaster, probably over mud and
straw bricks, with bright blue front doors and window frames. At Sarichioi the men have
long whiskers and an old chap is walking along the road pulling a cart loaded with reeds.
Enisala has a fantastic citadel high on a hill, built by Genoese merchants in the 13 th century.
There‟s mud everywhere. We come across a vineyard of old vines covering hundreds of
acres. No tanalised posts, all concrete.
At last we arrive in Babadag where we plan to stay the night. It‟s very Turkish with
the oldest mosque in Romania – 16th century. The Turks have been here since the 1200s.
We‟ve already heard the call to prayer. Babadag is a big enough town for us to park
relatively anonymously in a car park beside some shops. There are lots of Gypsies and
women wearing baggy Turkish trousers. As we travel east the Turkish influence increases.
The borders between these countries have changed constantly over the centuries. By the time
we get to Turkey we will be quite tuned in to mosques and Turkish ways.
The Minions Go Soft
In Babadag we see a man with two artificial arms. He has pink plastic hands hanging
from his sleeves and his arms don‟t move at all. We also see two other men who are unable
to walk. One is on a tiny wheeled trolley pulling himself along with his hands, and the other
one has plastic protecting his knees and hands, and drags himself along the street. You don‟t
see disabled people often unless they are begging.
We leave Babadag and head towards Jurilovca, through country that resembles a
moonscape. Here the carts have number plates. We pass one going quite fast, pulled by a
horse in big shoes with raised heels. The horse is in good condition and the whole set up is in
harmony, a rare sight. They head into a field towards a forest and we think they are going to
get firewood.
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Reeds are in abundance, so beautiful and mysterious. The dark spaces between them
have a beguiling depth and beauty. Low oak trees grow on grass, and further on the remnants
of an ancient oak forest cover a hillside. Some army vehicles roar past.
The road surface is the worst we‟ve been on and John can‟t get out of second gear.
The holes are so enormous and take up so much of the road‟s surface that at times we have to
travel on the wrong side. Fortunately there‟s hardly any traffic. A car comes towards us in
the field and we realise that there‟s a parallel universe where the locals travel. We join them
for a while with one set of wheels on the very edge of the road, and the other set in the field.
There are no fences of course.
Just before Salcioara we see huge flocks of birds on the horizon over Lake Razim. In
a village where the road is riddled with pot holes an old lady in a donkey cart with steel
wheels is working hard to get her tiny donkey moving. The police are lounging around but
they never notice that we‟re driving a foreign vehicle.
We drive down to the wharf at Jurilovca to have coffee. Boats of all sorts are tied up
and nets are laid out alongside long poles. Information boards describe the wild creatures
that live here: mink, otters, sturgeons, and the huge Dalmatian pelicans. Two Gypsy guys
drive up in carts, park, and put blankets over their horses‟ backs. We saw them racing each
other on the road into town earlier. A rooster crows and a donkey brays. There‟s a factory
supported by the EU and a boat called Moana 2 which reminds us of New Zealand.
You can catch a boat from here to Gura Portitei on a narrow strip of sand at the mouth
of the lake where there‟s a resort. The guide book says that in Communist times it was one of
the few places where people could escape the attention of the Securitate. We see wells in
town with signs “Apa Potabila”, “Apa Nepotabila”.
Then we‟re back in the country again with a huge empty sky, and on the horizon a
lake and distant hills. In Visina a guy is beating carpets with a stick. Juri and Visina are very
neat with nice footpaths, a rarity, but off the main road the streets are still mud. Interestingly
the schools and playgrounds are always immaculately kept. The only birds around are crows
and pigeons. We‟re in fourth gear for the first time today! In Lunca a woman is in her front
yard beside a well, washing clothes in a bath.
The farms are huge with big complexes of stock barns and implements but no farm
houses. We think they must all be owned by companies with the workers living in the
surrounding villages. There are stacks of conventional small hay bales, and wind generators
on the horizon. We go past Baia and see a mine with vast tailings, then an enormous factory.
A flock of coloured sheep and goats graze on the remnants of a cabbage crop.
We drive out on a causeway across reed beds to the coast to see Histria, an ancient
citadel with a museum. There are two pelicans flying high and crested larks feeding on the
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ground. The museum has a map of the archaeological sites in the area – Neolithic, Greek,
Roman, Byzantine, Medieval. The oldest artefacts in the museum are from 5000 BC. There
are marble and stone columns, remnants of buildings, inscribed burial stones, and Roman
water pipes. Lots of Greek pottery of all types is also displayed including some from Lesbos,
plus beautiful Roman glass bottles, and from a later era little glass lamps from the Christian
basilica. The two thousand year old Greek and Latin inscriptions in stone are always
compelling, even if we can‟t understand them. Outside we walk around the excavations and
see walls, wells and pillars in marble and stone.
To the south a vast oil refinery sits on the edge of the Black Sea. It‟s the
petrochemical complex at Navodari. We drive past it on the road to Constanta, along a strip
of land about two hundred yards wide with a lake on one side, the Black Sea on the other, and
the resort town of Mamaia in the middle. It has about seventy hotels, mostly ugly monolithic
structures which date from the Communist era. The restaurants and shops are all closed, as
it‟s the off season, but the tourist information and accommodation office is open. We go in
and five startled staff stare at us. They‟re like the cast of some young and beautiful soap
opera. They can only suggest one hotel and are very vague on the issue of wifi. We drive
past a wharf on the lake side where about fifty men are fishing shoulder to shoulder. John
watches them for a while before we park close by for the night.
In the morning there‟s ice inside the van, and we‟re ready for some luxury! We check
out a couple of camping grounds with cabins then find the Hotel Minion towards the
petrochemical end of the town. Twenty pounds a night, everything brand new, a view of the
sea, and wifi that doesn‟t work - it suits us fine. We go to the supermarket and our progress
towards Turkey is rewarded with Turkish delight, dried figs and halva. We carry all our food
up to the room plus the little gas cooker and coffee pot. The sheets are white. Paradise. We
watch the World Chopping Champs on TV and a Kiwi wins everything! Next day we stroll
down to the beach past half built houses and low apartment blocks. Many have been
abandoned half way through construction. There are dogs, puppies and rubbish galore, and
on the beach, mussel and clam shells.
Next day we drive into the port of Constanta where ships are anchored in the bay. We
park on the sea front and discover that a massive swell is pounding the shore. It‟s so
dramatic that the locals are there taking photos.
Roman and Greek ruins stand alongside ugly old apartment blocks and crumbling
buildings. In 8 AD the Roman poet Ovid was exiled here by Augustus who didn‟t like his
“Amores” poems. Poor Ovid hated the place and died here. We visit his statue then come
across a noisy demonstration of young men that appears to be about car tax. The Gendarmes
are in riot gear with a huge paddy wagon, and the fire engine has its hoses laid out ready to
use. We find a laundry where it will take a week to do our washing. We decide to leave the
next morning, then spend a great night by the sea with the waves crashing. We‟re parked
close to the Chinese embassy which has a police guard, and feel very safe.
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One of the funny things about driving a right hand drive vehicle in a left hand drive
world is that the passenger gets eyeballed by cops and other drivers, because from a distance,
looking into the van you can‟t see the steering wheel. This happens as we travel down a busy
boulevard leaving Constanta. I‟m on the receiving end of a very disapproving stare from a
cop directing traffic, because of some minor transgression.
We continue down the Black Sea coast and across the Danube-Black Sea Canal which
was begun in 1949. It came to be known as the Canal of Death as about 50,000 workers died
on it, most there as forced labour, sentenced without trial to six months work. These
unfortunate people included Uniate priests, peasants who resisted collectivisation, and people
caught trying to flee the country. The canal was abandoned in 1953 as the chosen route was
unsuitable. But it was resumed with a new route in 1975.
We travel past various tacky resort towns then Mangalia which has a port with ship
building beside the road. We check out the tiny beach of Vama Veche as a possible place to
stay the night. It‟s covered in rubbish and stray dogs so we decide to drive across the border
into Bulgaria instead. We‟re sad to leave Romania, land of cows, dogs, carts, and wonderful
people, our favourite country so far. But winter keeps catching up with us. Turkey and the
Aegean are calling.
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Chapter 7 Bulgaria, Turkey
13 December – 11 January
Rose Petal Jam
The border crossing into Bulgaria is in the middle of nowhere. We hand over our
passports and van ownership papers and the guard has a look in the back. Then we buy a
motorway vignette, change our remaining lei into leva, ask the woman in the money
exchange how to say hello, goodbye and thank you in Bulgarian, and get out the Bulgarian
road atlas.
The scale of the atlas is so good, we‟re a couple of towns further along before we
realise that we‟ve already passed the place we‟d picked out to spend the night. So we stop in
Kavarna and drive around looking for a place to park. During our search we drive into a
Gypsy area where people are crowded over the road watching some teenage girls performing
on a stage. We end up in the car park at the bus station between two defunct Skodas. I make
chicken and vege stew, we get straight online, and then turn in at six thirty. A new country is
always exhausting and here their Cyrillic alphabet is an added complication, although street
signs have our alphabet as well.
I finish “Portrait of a Turkish Family” by Irfan Orga (born in 1908) which has
demystified Turkey for me somewhat. It tells the story of a family living a comfortable and
traditional life in Istanbul at the end of the Ottoman Empire, only to be plunged into financial
disaster and instability with WW1 and Mustafa Kemal Ataturk‟s new order in the 1920s.
Next day we drive through flat and fertile country with huge agribusiness, and it‟s
very green, with no fences and no stock in sight, only massive barns and silos, and long
shelter belts. We‟re still beside the coast and there are some small estuaries with reeds, a
vineyard, and lots of cabbages. The villages are much tidier with better footpaths and roads
than in Romania, and there‟s virtually no traffic. The potholes of Eastern Europe have
reminded us of something that happened when we lived in Surrey. One day we were driving
along the very busy country road where we lived and we saw a woman by the side of the road
taking a photo of a pothole. She told us she‟d driven into it and ruined her suspension, and
she was taking a photo to show the council. The next day the pothole was filled in.
When we get to the coast, the town of Balcik is hilly with white cliffs like Dover, with
lots of new apartments for sale, the advertisements in English. It has a Mediterranean feel.
Then along the coast, Albena the newest Black Sea resort town has seven kilometres of beach
with golden sand. The hotels are new and attractive, and the place is completely deserted.
We have our lunch parked beside the beach then get lost finding our way back to the main
road, through a maze of streets, hotels and dead ends. Back on track we drive through oak
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forest, then trees growing out of swamp, and we look down steep roads that lead to resorts on
the coast.
We drive into Varna a big city with a port and fifteen ships anchored in the bay, and
look around for a cheap hotel. We find the Hotel Relax right in town, twenty quid a night,
croissants and short black coffees for breakfast, and fantastic reliable wifi in the bedroom.
Next day I go out for a haircut and one of the female hairdressers is shaving a male
customer with a cut throat razor. I walk past real estate agents with advertisements in
English, aimed at the Brits who buy apartments here. One of the spinoffs is that I can buy the
Times, Newsweek and Time magazines at a newsstand. We spend three nights at the Hotel
Relax skyping, looking on google earth, reading maps and guidebooks, and planning Turkey.
We even find a website with all the TIR truck stops in Europe. It seems appropriate as we‟re
getting closer to Greece to have souvlakis for dinner.
The hotel staff speak English and couldn‟t be more kind and attentive. They send our
washing off with their laundry and it‟s done beautifully and cheaply in a day. We go for a
walk on the beach and find a fragment of black willow pattern china, a fitting souvenir from
the Black Sea. We make the decision to drive down to Gallipoli and the Aegean coast to
acclimatise, before taking on Istanbul.
I start “A Tale of Two Cities” and Dickens‟ classic opening sentence about it being
the best of times and the worst of times makes as much sense now as it did then.
As we leave Varna I get distracted by a kestrel, there are no signposts where we
expect to see them, and we get lost, always stressful. We‟re just remarking on how good the
roads are when we drive into an area of potholes, shanty houses and huge piles of rubbish
slipping down hillsides. Then we see the aftermath of an accident with several police cars
descending on the scene. Fewer people seem to drive cars in Bulgaria with just a few old
Ladas and some new cars, not like in Romania where so many people had old Dacias
breaking down all over the place. We pass what looks like a Gypsy camp with caravans, then
low oak forest, the trees black silhouettes with just a few tan coloured leaves clinging on or
lying on the ground. There are lots of vineyards and beautiful conifers.
We arrive at the new town of Nesebar then drive across a causeway to the tiny old
town, formerly an island. Its ancient Greek, Roman, Byzantine and Ottoman history make
for a fascinating architectural mix. Wonderful ancient churches are constructed of stone and
brick, a pleasing combination, while many of the old houses have wooden upper stories that
jut out over the stone ground floors.
It‟s dominated by the sea with fishing nets everywhere and boats ranging from
dinghies to small ships. Stalls are hung with beautiful glittering fish, and we see herrings and
piper in bins, jars of chopped fish in brine, little rays, and a flatfish eighteen inches across.
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We park right by the wharf to watch all the action, and eat delicious Bulgarian rose petal jam
on toast.
The car park attendant gives us an apple and a big snail shell. When we say we come
from New Zealand he mentions Captain Cook. That night the light from the lighthouse
flashes on our back curtain all night. In the morning when we‟re leaving our friend gives us
another couple of apples and sprinkles water from a Coke bottle in front of the van,
explaining in Bulgarian that it‟s a local custom. Bon voyage. Very touching. As we drive
back across the causeway a tiny donkey is pulling a cart carrying two fat men.
Light rain is falling, the Black Sea is aquamarine, and the sky is grey. Ruffled birds
of prey are hunched in trees. The Bulgarian Black Sea coast is very beautiful with cliffs,
forests, and dramatic beaches. Some of the buildings have Turkish roofs. Bulgaria exports a
lot of wine and there are vineyards with old vines right beside the sea. We‟ve bought a few
bottles to take into Turkey.
We arrive in Sozopol, a gorgeous little ancient fishing village with remnants of the
old town walls towering high above the waves crashing below. There are ancient fig trees
and men going fishing everywhere. Roses are still flowering and the last of the pomegranates
hang from trees. We park by the wharf and open a carton of delicious quince juice.
Next morning as we‟re about to leave, John asks a man walking his dog which is the
best way to the Turkish border, down the coast or down the middle. He‟s very friendly, a
seaman for thirty years sailing all over the world. His advice is to take the inland route. We
retrace our steps, after watching two men head out in an old open boat with a diesel engine,
on a beautiful calm sea.
There are pelicans on Lake Mandra then we move to high rolling country with grass,
and oak forest. The road is rough and bouncy but there are no potholes and no other traffic.
We see a flock of sheep with a shepherd, a herd of horses with a minder, then a young Gypsy
cantering bareback on the grass at the edge of the road, with another horse on a lead. As we
drink our coffee beside a forest of lichen encrusted trees we realise that our favourite
guidebook “On the Loose in Eastern Europe 1993”, bought from the Newcastle Public
Library a few years ago for fifty pence, is of no further use as it stops at Bulgaria.
It‟s a perfect sunny day with just the odd car passing and a lone cowbell. We are now
entering the Strandja National Park which Kapka Kassabova describes in “Street without a
Name”. In the Communist era pre 1989 the border zone here between Turkey and Bulgaria
was known as the Death Triangle. It was a very lonely and empty place where only the
hundreds of border guards lived. Virtually no-one was allowed to cross into Turkey, and
many young Eastern European people (particularly East Germans) were shot as they tried to
escape across the border, evading the guards, then swimming the Resovska River. It makes
us feel uneasy even now.
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We go through Zvezdec a desolate village of crumbling apartment blocks, then forest.
At the turn off to Brasljan there are deserted apartment blocks and two policemen are leaning
on the bonnet of an old Lada, watching the traffic go by. At Malko Tarnovo there‟s a sign for
Istanbul, the first indication that this is the road to Turkey. Women are out sweeping the
footpaths. Then there‟s forest of beech, alder and birch and lovely little vineyards and
orchards with tiny cottages. The road is extremely windy and we begin to wonder if we‟ve
taken a wrong turning. A light rain begins to fall.
We‟re relieved when we see a sign saying that it‟s three kilometres to Turkey. There
are huge beech trees and old street lights from a previous era. At the checkpoint we stop for
the police and hand over our passports and vehicle ownership papers. They give us a
memory stick and tell us to hand it in at the next checkpoint. We drive past a statue of
Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, the father of modern Turkey, not realising that we will see an army
of them in the next few weeks. Altogether our documents are processed at six checkpoints,
all with barricades. At one of them a large army lorry is coming the other way and John has
to back up round the corner so it can get through. The guy who checks our vehicle insurance
looks in the back of the van and grimaces. Then at the final check the guard says “Have a
nice time. Do you know the way? Do you have computer navigation?” We have an A1
sized map.
It couldn‟t be more different from the Romania to Bulgaria border crossing where the
Romanians park their Dacias, show their passports, walk to a Bulgarian shop, buy things,
then walk back to their cars and drive home. It‟s a good introduction to the military side of
Turkey.
The road is beautiful and smooth and there‟s not another car, just an avenue of bare
birch trees. We pass a vast area of stacked metre lengths of beech firewood. Then the road
surface suddenly deteriorates. We‟re beginning to think that countries try to impress
newcomers at the border with a couple of miles of very good road, before the potholes and
bumps begin.
Our first Turkish village is Derekoy, and we see old ladies in headscarves, huge piles
of firewood, beehives, small market stalls selling vegetables, rubbish in a stream, and our first
Turkish bird of prey. It could be Romania, apart from the numerous marble fixtures
supplying water on the side of the road both in towns and in the country - perfect for us to
replenish our supplies whenever we wish. Every village has a mosque and the people look
very poor. As we descend the weather clears, and in the distance we see a thermal power
station with cooling towers. It‟s a new rocky landscape of red soil, small oaks, and pines.
We look down over vast open country reminiscent of a scene from a Western.
We pass grapevines, a horse stud, a big flock of sheep and goats, a pony pulling a
little flat cart, crows, magpies, concrete aqueducts in fields, and stray dogs. At Kirklareli we
see a sign back to Bulgaristan. There are huge new petrol stations, something we will see
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wherever we go in Turkey, and diesel is expensive. We wonder if the most expensive fuel in
Europe is what keeps the roads so empty. Texts now cost us fifty pence, further evidence that
we‟ve left the EU.
We drive onto a toll motorway, so much more adept now than on our first encounter
with one in Italy two years ago when we bungled every aspect of it and spent a couple of
hours stressed and lost, without a ticket, and unable to go forward or escape. The rest areas
are large and empty, as if the motorway system has been designed for a far greater traffic
volume. We turn off at Havsa and head south.
It‟s all very familir with lots of motorbikes, cabbages for sale, and mud in the
villages. We arrive in Osmanli at one o‟clock when the men are emerging from the mosque.
The women are wearing baggy pants with the crutch virtually at ground level, very
comfortable and hiding a multitude of sins. A shepherd is walking along the roadside with a
small flock of goat like sheep.
As we arrive in Uzunkopru two fighter planes fly over. The minarets of the mosques
are like needles on the skyline. We drive along the main street and it‟s an intimidating flow
of cars and pedestrians, with an untethered horse standing with a cart in the middle of it all.
We‟re shaky and tired, quite unprepared for pedestrians to be mingling with traffic to this
degree, so we find a quiet suburban street as soon as we can. There‟s an empty section and
we park beside it, near low apartment buildings which have chimneys issuing coal smoke,
and wood fired barbecues on the balconies.
A woman comes out onto her balcony, throws a Coke bottle onto the grass below,
then stands looking down at us for a while. At about six o‟clock a large lorry with
“Masallah” written on the front (“what Allah wills” – protection from the evil eye and traffic
accidents) parks eyeball to eyeball with us. We‟re in the back of the van. The driver gets
out, walks over to the van, looks in the front, goes back to the lorry, backs up a couple of feet
then locks up for the night.
At about two in the morning I‟m lying awake when there‟s a thump that shakes the
van, and the tinkle of breaking glass. John is instantly awake and up beside the bulkhead, in
time to see a man walking past the passenger‟s window. Then there‟s silence. We lie there
wondering what‟s happened and who it was. We think the headlight has been smashed but
stay inside the van for safety. It can all wait until the morning.
After a broken sleep, next morning we discover that one of the front headlights has
been smashed. Fortunately it still works. Luckily we have a thick sheet of magnifying
plastic A5 size, and John cuts a piece to fit. He tapes this onto the light with gaffer tape,
binding bits of broken glass in place as well. Kiwi ingenuity saves the day. Cars in this part
of the world have far bigger defects so we hope that this won‟t attract the attention of the
police. As it turns out, it lasts for the next six months.
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John sweeps the broken glass off the road and we leave as fast as we can, feeling quite
shaken and thinking that we must have upset the lorry driver by parking in his place. We
decide to downplay this incident in our communications home as people will probably think
we‟re in danger. Before leaving New Zealand four years earlier we worked out a policy to
cover situations like this. We decided that we would allow ourselves only a few minutes of
grief, before moving on with a positive attitude, trusting in the essential goodness of people.
The Wine Dark Sea
We drive south, through crops which are much further advanced than the ones in
Romania; and we‟re thrilled to see our favourite umbrella (stone) pines. There are also dwarf
oaks and low scrub in the poor soil. Large areas of reeds have been harvested, and we see an
egret and some marsh harriers.
We arrive in Gelibolu, stop on the roadside beside a marble merchant, and get straight
online. We take turns to skype our families back home in New Zealand. A pony and cart go
past, a plastic sheet over the pony‟s back and two men on the cart, one standing up holding a
motorbike. We need to look for a place to stay. Gelibolu is on the Sea of Marmara at the
beginning of the Dardanelles, the narrow strip of water that leads to the Aegean Sea to the
south. It has a beautiful port area with ships, ferries, fishing boats and nets galore.
All of the shipping to and from the Black Sea has to pass this piece of coast and
there‟s a fascinating procession of ships coming and going. There are military sites with
armed guards everywhere. We park near a small pillbox occupied by an armed soldier,
figuring that the van will be safe there, and walk into town.
It‟s mostly men who are about, with some younger women. The women my age all
wear headscarves. We enter a market where ponies are resting with their little carts,
nosebags on, and old Turkish carpets over their backs. The owners are in a cafe. In fact the
cafes are full of men. I spot an old building with the sign “Hamam Turkish Bath”. It‟s just
what I‟ve been looking for. I drag John in (he keeps muttering something about “Midnight
Express”), and a male attendant shows us around. We go back to the van to get our gear and
when we return we have the bath house to ourselves.
The attendant tells me to undress in the same room as John which will mean I have to
walk across the foyer in a sarong. I‟m not keen to do that so I undress in a room close to the
bathing area. It‟s a small stone bunker, old and basic. The attendant turns on the hot taps
above deep basins attached to the wall at knee height. You dip the water out with a plastic
bowl and tip it over yourself. They even have a hairdrier for me to use at the end. We just
love it and it feels like we‟ve left the headlight smasher far behind. Nothing will stop us!
We buy kebabs and walk around the wonderful shops which sell every kind of nut,
dried fruit, flour, vegetable, and fish. We see no alcohol for sale. With the warmth and the
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palm trees we suddenly feel like we‟re on holiday! It‟s almost Mediterranean. Turkey seems
to have a lightness, contrasting with the lingering trace of oppression in all the former
Communist countries we‟ve visited.
The scenery on the drive down the Gallipoli Peninsula to Eceabat is all red soil,
cabbages, leeks, lettuces, olives, irrigation and cypresses, and on the water, big ships, and
little fishing boats flying the Turkish flag. The military are everywhere. Young Turkish men
are required to do fifteen months military service, or less if they have a university degree.
Conscientious objection is illegal, and it‟s illegal to publicly criticise conscription or the
military.
Turkey is one of a select few countries which grow all their own food, plus it has
enough to export as well. Agriculture dominates the landscape and the range of crops is
huge: hazelnuts, quince, chickpeas, apricots, figs, pomegranates, tomatoes, almonds, olives,
pistachios, wheat and lemons, plus cotton and barley. One of the things we love already is
the rich patchwork of crops, and the obvious fertility of the soil.
At Eceabat we find TJ‟s Hotel right beside the wharf where the ferry departs for
Cannakale over on the Asian side of the Dardanelles. A room with wireless costs thirteen
pounds a night, and the large breakfast included in the price consists of thick white bread,
olives, cucumber, tomatoes, cheese, honey, jam and tea. There turns out to be no heating or
hot water and we‟re the only guests. Electricity is very expensive and most people use solar
heating for hot water.
It‟s December 20th and we‟re extremely grateful to find this cheap home away from
home at Christmas in the middle of winter. We live off canned dinners from Eastern
European supermarkets heated up on our little gas stove, skyping our families and spending
lots of time on the internet, occasionally looking out the window to check on the van parked
on the street two floors below.
Our breakfast is served in the large rooftop bar which has a wooden Maori tiki,
Australian memorabilia, WW1 shell cases, and a panoramic view over the Dardanelles and
all the shipping passing by. A sign in the toilet strikes fear into our hearts: “Please put toilet
paper in bins provided, not down the toilet! Turkish septic pipes are very small, you may not
only block our hotel, but the whole of Eceabat!” After reading this we‟re never quite sure
whether this applies to every toilet in Turkey, and we‟re nervous about it.
Sitting on the street outside are concrete planters about four feet high, in the shape of
kangaroos, with a plant in the pouch. Down the road is the Hotel Crowded House, another
indication of the huge influx of Kiwis and Aussies that occurs every Anzac Day on 25 April.
The Turks hold their Gallipoli commemoration on 18 March, the day they defeated the
British Navy in the Dardanelles.
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Next day we read in bed. It‟s very cold and we ask for a heater. The young men
running the place respond quickly, removing the heater from the reception area, and taking it
up in the lift to our room. It‟s too large and gets stuck in the doorway, quite entertaining at
the time, but disappointing. We become accustomed to having cold showers.
Later, John goes into a shop to buy some beer and strikes up a conversation with a
tour guide who seems to know all about New Zealand‟s record of following Britain and the
U.S.A. into war. He reels off a list: the Boer War, WW1, WW2, Korea, Vietnam, ticking
them off on his fingers. John retorts “But we didn‟t go to Iraq” and he replies “You people
may be starting to learn”. He concludes by saying “Politicians bullshit” a number of times
and indicating that ordinary people don‟t want war. John agrees. The legendary bond
between the Anzacs and Turks is very apparent. Later on John names photos on the laptop,
and I read “The Iliad” in preparation for Troy.
When we get a fine day we head towards the cemeteries and memorials on the
Gallipoli Peninsula. A jay sits in a huge ancient fig tree and an elusive bird of prey keeps
flying just out of our reach. Big forests of umbrella pines soften the landscape, and thick
stands of cypress make a spiky contrast. At the national park headquarters the museum is
closed for renovation. Some souvenir stalls are open and we buy “Gallipoli: a Turning Point”
by Mustafa Askin, who is from a village near Troy, just across the water. He draws parallels
between the Gallipoli campaign and the Trojan War, both fought on some other pretext, but
really about who controls the Dardanelles. The man selling souvenirs asks where we‟re from
then gives us two pieces of shrapnel and a British 303 cartridge case.
There‟s a poem on display by the Turkish poet and politician Bulent Ecevit, written in
1988, which draws a parallel between the Ottoman and British Empires:
GALLIPOLI A POST WAR EPIC
“What land were you torn away from what makes you so sad coming here”asked Mehmet the
soldier from Anatolia addressing the Anzac lying near
“FROM THE UTTERMOST ENDS OF THE WORLD I come so it writes on my tombstone”
answered the youthful Anzac “and here I am buried in a land that I had not even known”
“Do not be disheartened mate” Mehmet told him tenderly “you share with us the same fate in
the bosom of our country
You are not a stranger anymore you have become a Mehmet just like me”
A paradise on earth Gallipoli is a burial under the ground those who lost their lives in
fighting lie there mingled in friendly compound
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Mehmet then asked an English soldier who seemed to be at the playing age “How old are you
little brother what brought you here at such an early stage”
“I am fifteen forever” the English soldier said “In the village from where I come I used to
play war with the children arousing them with my drum
Then I found myself in the front was it real or a game before I could tell my drum fell silent
as I was struck with a shell
A place was dug for me in Gallipoli on my stone was inscribed DRUMMER AGE FIFTEEN
thus ended my playful task and this is the record of what I have done and what I have been”
A distant drum bereaved of its master was weeping somewhere around as drops of tears fell
on it with the soft rainfall on the ground
What winds had hurled all those youthful braves from four continents of the world to the
Gallipoli graves Mehmet asked in wonder
They were English or Scotch they were French or Senegalese they were Indians or Nepalese
they were Anzacs from Australia and New Zealand shipsful of soldiers who had landed on the
lacy bays of Gallipoli not knowing why climbed the hills and slopes rising high digging
trenches cutting the earth like wounds to shelter as graves those who were to die
Some were BELIEVED TO BE BURIED in one cemetery or another some were IN GRAVES
UNKNOWN all had ENTERED INTO REST in the language of the tombstone at the age of
sixteen or seventeen or eighteen under the soil of Gallipoli
Thus their short-lived stories were told as inscriptions on tablets of old
Buried there Mehmet of Anatolia without a stone to tell consoled them saying “brothers I
understand you so well
For centuries I also had to die in distant lands not knowing why
For the first time I gave my life not feeling sore for I gave it here for my own in a war
Thus the sultan’s fief tilled for ages with my hand has now become for me a motherland
You who died in this land you did not know are no more foreigner or foe
For the land which you could not take has taken you to her bosom too
You therefore belong here as much as I do”
In Gallipoli a strange war was fought cooling off the feelings as fighting became hot
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It was a ruthless war yet breeding respect in heart-to-heart exchange as confronting trenches
fell into closer range
Turning foe to friend as the fighters reached their end
The war came to a close those who survived returned to their lands and homes leaving the
dead behind
Wild flowers wave after wave replaced the retiring soldiers
Wild roses and mountain tulips and daisies were spread as rugs on the ground covering
trench-by-trench the wounds of fighting on the earth
The sheep turned the bunkers into sheds the birds replaced the bullets in the sky nature with
hands holding the plough instead of guns captured back the battlegrounds with its flowers
and fruits and greenery
And life returned to the soil as traces of blood were effaced
Turning the hell of the battlefield into a paradise on earth Gallipoli now abounds with
gardensful with nationsful of burial grounds
A paradise on earth Gallipoli is a burial under the ground those who lost their life in fighting
lie there mingled in friendly compound
“Lying side by side”as “friends in each other’s arms” they may “sleep in comfort and
peace” in the land for which they died.
We see a large statue of a Turkish soldier carrying a wounded British officer in his
arms and there‟s a story that goes with it. At Chunuk Bair when the trenches were only about
thirty feet apart, a ceasefire was called after a bayonet attack. A badly wounded English
captain lying between the lines cried out for help. The Turks hoisted a piece of white
underwear as a signal to cease fire, and a brave unarmed Turkish soldier walked out, picked
up the wounded man, carried him to the Allies‟ trenches, then returned to the Turkish side.
This is a legendary and often repeated image, as is the one of an Anzac soldier giving water
to a wounded Turk.
We hear the rumble of thunder, eerily like guns. The snowy mountainous islands of
Samothraki and Limnos (Greek), and Gokceada (Turkish) lie to the west. The rolling hills of
the Gallipoli Peninsula have been planted in a range of plants all less than three metres high,
like a huge garden.
In Anzac Cove at the Lone Pine cemetery and memorial we find our friend Kerry‟s
great uncle‟s name. He was twenty two, an Australian. It‟s very peaceful there with just the
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tapping of a stonemason‟s tools echoing up to us from a new monument being built some
distance away.
Next is the Turkish memorial, with its tribute to Mustafa Kemal Ataturk whose
bravery and brilliant leadership were an essential element of the Turkish victory over the
Allied troops. The famous speech he made to his soldiers is quoted here: “I am not asking
you to attack, I am ordering you to die. In the time which passes until we die, other troops
and commanders can take our place.” In that particular battle virtually all of his 57th
regiment was killed, but they won the day. The monument is a tribute to the bravery of the
Turkish soldier. After his inspired decision making and leadership during this battle, Mustafa
Kemal Ataturk was immediately promoted.
While we‟re visiting Chunuk Bair, the scene of the Allies‟ big defeat on 1 August
1915, we hear the call to prayer from a mosque. The view down the coast from Anzac Cove
to North Beach is breathtakingly beautiful in the light rain. We‟re tempted to stop and have a
fossick in a sloping bank two metres high with bare soil and exposed strata. A derelict
pillbox stands on the hillside.
We stop to have bacon sandwiches and fruit cake for lunch and John gathers pebbles
and sand from the beach. We get our first view of the Aegean and Greece. The sky is
dramatic - grey, blue and black, with shafts of light, above a strip of silver sea. Dwarf holm
oaks dot the landscape. The Sea Cemetery has Australian and New Zealand graves, with
some of the fallen “believed to be buried in this cemetery”. We look up to Chunuk Bair and
it‟s spectacular, steep and impenetrable like “badlands” or mine tailings.
We pass a flatter terrain with laden olives, orchards, walnut trees, the odd tiny house,
and a small bird of prey which could be a merlin, holding something in its feet. The soil is
beautiful and there‟s a second crop of sunflowers, with a row of Lombardy poplars. We drive
through Buyuk Anafarta village and there are roses, tractors, a spotted woodpecker, and
Turkish flags flying everywhere. We see a hen harrier then two big birds of prey cruising
along the sea front landing on conifers. They‟re white tailed eagles. As usual not many
women are around. We realise that it was at this time in December 1915 that the Allies
evacuated Gallipoli.
The Trojan Owl
Searching on the internet for a reference to Lord Byron swimming across the
Hellespont (Dardanelles) in 1810, I come across an annual swimming race from Eceabat on
the European side to Cannakale on the Asian side. All shipping is halted for one and a half
hours, but small Turkish boats accompany the swimmers who are advised to swim west then
south, rather than heading straight to Cannakale, thus avoiding the current which would
sweep them towards Greece. Apparently the current is normally about six miles an hour, but
when the snow melts and the rivers that empty into the Black Sea flow through the Sea of
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Marmara into the Dardanelles, it can reach ten miles an hour, especially if there‟s a prevailing
northerly. To us it seems like a giant river mouth, and the ships heading up towards Istanbul
always seem to be moving more slowly than the ones heading out with the current.
On Christmas Eve we drive around the Dardanelles side of the peninsula, past
Kilitbahir Fortress, built in 1453 by Mehmet the Conqueror, one of two, with its counterpart
on the other side of the water at Cannakale. As usual there are ships and fishing boats galore.
We see a vineyard with beautiful blue marcocarpas (Arizonica) on the boundary, then pine
and juniper forest, olives, plane trees, and holm oaks, all in different shades of green and
varied textures. We arrive at the top where there are beautiful fields of crop. In a private
museum of WW1 artefacts, we see a gruesome collection of shrapnel, shell cases, photos,
skulls, teeth, buckles, glasses, cups, and money: the minutiae of war. There‟s a lot of French
and British material but nothing obviously Australian or New Zealand.
When we head out on the road again shepherds with enormous sheepdogs are minding
flocks of sheep with bursting udders. Stray dogs are plentiful and we‟re ready for them now,
feeding a can of dog food to some puppies in a car park.
On 19 February 1915 the British Navy (with Winston Churchill as First Lord of the
Admiralty) sailed into this narrow strip of water with eighteen warships. Mustafa Askin
draws a parallel with the Greeks‟ “thousand black ships” carrying a hundred thousand
soldiers to fight the Trojans three thousand years before. One of the British ships was even
named Agamemnon. The Ottoman Empire was in its final years, isolated and weak, with the
armed forces under equipped and in need of modernisation. The Turks were totally
outclassed in terms of equipment but the ancient forts on each side withstood the attack. On
18 March when the British and French sailed into the Narrows, they were forced into the
mined area offshore by the Turks firing from the shore. Several ships were blown up and the
Turks were victorious. This was their first military victory for many years.
They then set about fortifying the Gallipoli Peninsula in preparation for an invasion.
The five weeks of preparation while the Allies delayed ended up giving the Turks the
advantage. The Gallipoli campaign lasted until January 1916 when what was left of the
Allied forces had been evacuated, defeated by poorly equipped but courageous Turks
desperate to defend their homeland.
Mustafa Kemal Ataturk was promoted to general on the strength of his superlative
leadership. Turkey came of age at Gallipoli fighting off the invader, in spite of suffering
nearly ninety thousand deaths out of a quarter of a million casualties, in comparison to the
Allies‟ forty four thousand deaths out of a hundred and forty one thousand casualties.
Mustafa Kemal was the man of the hour, spending the years following WW1 fighting for
Turkey‟s independence, and uniting and modernising the country. On the Ataturk Memorial
his conciliatory words from 1934 are engraved: “Those heroes that shed their blood and lost
their lives ... you are now lying in the soil of a friendly country. Therefore rest in peace,
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there is no difference between the Johnnies and the Mehmets to us where they lie side by side
here in this country of ours ... you, the mothers, who sent their sons from far away countries,
wipe away your tears; your sons are now lying in our bosom and are in peace. After having
lost their lives on this land they have become our sons as well.”
Our overwhelming feeling about the Gallipoli campaign is embarrassment that New
Zealanders came here and attempted to invade Turkey. It seems unthinkable. We look out
over the dark sea then head back to the hotel and skype our families for Christmas.
On Christmas morning we notice that a market is being laid out in the streets nearby
so we go exploring. There‟s a glorious display of every kind of fruit and vegetable, bread,
clothes, plastic containers, shoes, material, homemade olive oil, quinces, and coriander.
After wandering around and taking photos we catch the ferry across to Cannakale on a
perfect still sunny day. It‟s Christmas in our heads, but in Turkey of course it‟s business as
usual. To celebrate, we have lunch at the Yalova Liman restaurant upstairs above the port,
and watch the ships, ferries, and men fishing off the wharf.
First we choose our meze. It‟s cold – scallop salad, a nettle like green vegetable in oil
and balsamic vinegar (very necessary after the canned concoctions we‟ve been living off!),
potato salad, delicious roast red pepper, and a luscious aubergine dish, all eaten with bread.
Following this John has meatballs and I have a lamb kebab, served with chips, rice, tomato,
and a lovely char grilled pale green pepper. For dessert we have Kabak Tatlisi (pumpkin
which has been marinated then simmered in sugar, served with walnuts, absolutely delicious).
We walk around Cannakale looking at the shops and markets, and buy a
Turkish/English dictionary. It‟s been a great day out, and we return to Eceabat on the ferry,
skype our families again, then, to quote The Iliad, “they lay down and took the gift of sleep”.
After another day of reading and planning our trip from Greece to Croatia, we get sick
of the cold showers and no heating, and decide to continue on our way, taking the van across
on the ferry and heading towards Troy. When we check out one of the young guys at
reception asks if we‟re on our honeymoon!
We visit the Cannakale Archaeological Museum which is full of artefacts from Troy
and the surrounding area: marble pillars, burial stones, garlands of fine gold leaves, terracotta
storage jars, and beautiful glass objects.
Then we drive to the Troia Pension close to Troy, desperate to do the washing. It
costs a bit to park in their camping area but we have the use of a hot shower and toilet, plus
the washing machine in the house. A lovely couple in their eighties are in charge with a
younger woman helping, as the family who run the place are on holiday. The man is an artist
and when he finds out we‟re Kiwis he tells me that he has drawn our Xena. He also tells me
that Mustafa Kemal died of cirrhosis of the liver from drinking raki.
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His wife is very lame and painfully struggles up from the shop to the house to light
the fire and help me with the washing machine. I do two loads of washing and end up
hanging it out in the dark on their porch in the sleet, feeling sure it will be wetter in the
morning. Amazingly, in spite of the bitter cold and sleet, next morning it‟s dry enough to
finish off in the van with the heater on.
The pension has a large shop with all sorts of souvenirs and I buy some fabulous
traditional Turkish hats plus a book on Troy by Mustafa Askin who was born at Hisarlik, a
village nearby. When we leave, the old man tells us that he really enjoys meeting people
from other countries who are interested in Turkey.
Next day we put on our thermal underwear and visit Troy in the sleet. After
devouring “The Iliad” every night it‟s a real thrill for me. Archaeological and other scientific
investigations are ongoing, and it may or may not have been the site of the Troy of “The
Iliad”, but lots of evidence points towards it. Five or six distinct areas of settlement have
been discovered, from about 3500 BC to 600 AD. We see walls, wells, the remains of
towers, gates, houses, a temple to Athena, a parliament, theatre, and Roman baths.
The enormous and notorious Schliemann trench is deep and wide. It‟s where the
German Heinrich Schliemann made the discovery in the 1870s that this site could be the Troy
of legend. A roof has been built at the very top of the site to indicate the height of the soil
before the digging started.
Troy is on a hill at the entrance to the Dardanelles, a very strategic location, like a
Maori pa site in New Zealand. The surrounding area is fertile farmland. The shore where the
Greeks pulled up their ships is no longer there as the sea has receded. Because of the weather
we can‟t see Mt Ida (Kaz Dagi), where the gods spent time while watching the trials and
tribulations of the mortals fighting the Trojan War, on occasion intervening on behalf of their
favourites.
At the entrance to the ruins of Troy they‟ve built a wooden horse about fifty feet tall,
and we climb up inside it to get a view of the area. Back on the ground we look up and see
an owl sitting on the edge of an opening at the top of the horse. It‟s a tawny owl, just like at
Brownies. Mustafa Askin writes about the owls in the area. He tells the story of guiding an
Australian at Gallipoli and hearing from him that his relation who fought there talked about
angels flying around. Mustafa Askin believes that these were the local owls. We also see
jays in an umbrella pine, lots of doves, and a robin in a puddle. The site is beautiful, with
Turkey oaks, fennel, and the odd wild fig.
I‟m loving “The Iliad” in spite of its gruesome subject matter. The writing is
beautiful, and the references to shepherds and sheep, storms, the landscape, human nature, the
love of horses, the foibles of humans and gods, and the tragedy of war, all come shining
through for me. It seems very contemporary.
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Nearby at Kalafat we see two happy little boys out in their storm gear and we throw
them a couple of bouncy balls. They‟re delighted. As we head south we pass farmyards
enclosed by old stone walls, many with coiled black irrigation pipe lying in piles. Turkey is
clearly a country of expert gardeners and farmers.
I see a redstart, a little bird with a red rear end, and goatherds out with their flocks.
Snow lines the road, and forms vertical lines on the north side of the trunks of some old olive
trees. It‟s very fertile ploughed land with small hills. We‟re heading round the minor coast
road towards Assos (Berhamkale), and everywhere farmers are out on their tractors. The
houses all have solar panels. We see tunnel houses of lettuces, stork nests, women in
headscarves smoking, hillsides of olives, and a cemetery edged with perfect cypresses.
The Turkish Army To The Rescue
The drive from Troy to Assos is spectacular and slow with intensive agriculture, steep
rocky mountainous areas, and the Aegean Sea, with beaches, boats, and olives right down to
the water‟s edge. We pass through the village of Kumburun where everything is completely
functional, with no attempt at beautification. Sheep are in walled enclosures off stone barns,
the walls made of mud brick laced with straw. Just out of Geyiki we smell the sea, before we
get to the coast at Iskelesi where there are many empty two storied holiday villas and a wharf
with large boats and ferries to Bozcaada Island. Three storied houses have the top floor open
on three sides, for a barbecue and dining area. Apartment complexes line the coast.
We see an old couple under an oak tree milking two cows with a milking machine.
Snowdrifts lie beside the road, alongside large chunks of marble that look like they‟ve been
ploughed up from ancient sites by farmers and tossed aside. At Tavakliskeli we stop for the
night on the edge of a low cliff in a car park next to an empty hotel. It‟s very cold, with light
rain, and there are little boats and nets on the beach below.
The next day is fine with a dark blue and turquoise sea. As we head south we pass the
path of a recent flash flood where the soil has been washed off an olive grove across the road
and onto the beach. There‟s a massive field of cauliflowers between the road and the sea,
stretching into the distance. A milk can is sitting on a wheelbarrow beside the road. It must
be sheep‟s milk out for collection.
As we drive through the village of Kosadere there are tractors everywhere and as
always, men in cafes drinking tea. The scrub here looks different and when I pick some I see
that it‟s a spiky thyme. An open sided barn has the roof held up by old tree trunks. Some of
the animal enclosures are built right into the hillside, and there are flocks of sheep with big
udders and tails, and one with a bell, which I know from Homer is the lead sheep. We stop to
give a shepherd driving his sheep along the road a Snickers bar. Steam rises from red mud
and a rock face is coloured purple, orange and red. At Gulpinar we visit the huge site of the
Temple of Apollo Smintheus dominated by pillars, walls, and chunks of marble. Apparently
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it has extensive friezes depicting scenes from “The Iliad” which are in the museum, but
unfortunately it‟s only open in August and September when the site is being excavated. The
excavation is sponsored by the local beer Efes Pilsen.
The countryside gets steeper and rockier, with snow and stunted vegetation. There
are quarries of golden coloured rock, and beautiful stone walls with brushwood along the top.
At Kocacoy the puddles are covered in ice. As always water fountains set in stone appear
beside the road every few miles. We climb to where the vegetation runs out. Bademli hilltop
village has sheep and skinny cows on the road, followed by Koyunevi with solid houses and
immaculate stone work. We stop in the middle of the road to take amazing photos.
A donkey with a wooden pack saddle lies beside the road, then there‟s a bull in a
field. At Balabanli the walls of the houses are two feet thick, and there are numerous fig
trees. Large sheep with very fine wool eat grass in a snowy field with their spotted lambs.
The land is divided into sections with stone walls, and there are narrow races for access. The
rock sheep shelters here are very basic, about three feet high and twenty feet in diameter with
two entrance holes, and the roofs covered in vegetation. Then a beautiful wide valley lies
before us, with grey Lombardy poplars at the bottom, and stunted Turkey oaks. Far away we
see a high hill with what looks like a castle on the top, and wonder if it‟s Assos.
From a rise we see the Greek island of Lesbos with the shining sea in front of it, the
houses of Assos running down the hill, and the minaret of a mosque. We drive up the steep
cobbled streets, each cobble a foot across. When the road gets too narrow we park and
continue on foot. There are honking geese and we‟re followed by a pointer dog with a bell
around its neck. The call to prayer starts and the dog howls in sympathy. Steep lanes take us
to the ruins of the Temple of Athena perched on the cliff top, with one hundred and eighty
degree views over the sea and Lesbos, and the ancient port far below.
Back in the village fig trees are everywhere. The roof of one house is made of Pink
Batts covered with shingle. Aristotle had a school here and his statue stands at the
crossroads. There‟s a lovely steep 14th century Ottoman bridge. From a tiny shop we buy
beautiful simit bread rolls, a loaf of bread, and a Turkish newspaper in English which is full
of the latest Israeli bombing in Palestine.
We walk down to the houses and hotels at the old port which is a manmade harbour.
The place has the feel of a very busy tourist spot but right now it‟s deserted. There‟s a
jandamerie with a young armed guard. We watch a fisherman go out in his boat and throw
his net in an open spiral, a delicate process where he turns off the motor to prevent the net
getting caught in the propeller. We park high up between the cliff top ruins and the sea and I
make a stew of lamb neck chops with leeks, pumpkin, red wine, mushrooms, red pepper, and
parsley, while John sleeps across the front seats in the sun. Later the Turkish flag appears
before us in the sky, a new moon rising over the sea with a tiny star right beside it.
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Next morning the spray is whipping off the sea. I look at the clock on the dashboard
and casually comment to John that it says 4.30. With a war cry fit for “The Iliad” he leaps
out of bed and over into the front seat as he realises that the lights have been left on and the
battery is flat. (The Turkish law requiring motorists to drive with the lights on has been
tough for us because we invariably arrive somewhere late in the day and just collapse in the
van, not even getting out and walking around to notice the lights left on!) Some quick
thinking is required. We decide that the jandarmes down at the port will be the ones to help
us out so John heads off to see them, first of all writing down the relevant words in Turkish
from the dictionary, and drawing a picture of the van with its lights on.
He approaches the armed guard on duty and explains our predicament as best he can.
The guard summons other soldiers until eventually they move up through the ranks to a man
in a beret who comes out and takes command. He and two other handsome young chaps put
John in their blue minibus and arrive back at the van in no time. They all stick their heads
under the bonnet. I get out and they put me in their vehicle with Turkish music on the radio.
The problem is that there are no jumper leads.
With all of us piled into their minibus we travel back up to the village on the hill, past
Aristotle, no seatbelts and hell for leather. We stop at a restaurant and they go in and talk,
then one of them walks up an alley with one of the locals. He comes back empty handed, no
jumper leads. Then another local appears and they commandeer the battery out of his car!
Back at the van they take out the battery, put the other one in, John starts the van, then they
take out the borrowed battery, and put our one back in. Amazing. We are so grateful. John
offers to pay them and I offer chocolate but the officer won‟t hear of it. So John gives them a
big salute and they all salute back and laugh as they drive off.
The motor‟s running and we can‟t turn it off for for some time so we get going inland.
We‟re thanking our lucky stars, with Mt Ida in the distance, driving through a beautiful area
of olives, when we see a tiny woman walking up the hill in front of us carrying an enormous
load on her back. We stop and wave to her. She wants a lift. I help her put her incredibly
heavy bundle of green feed into the back, then settle her in the passenger‟s seat, still holding
her little sickle. She‟s very grateful and warms her hands by the heater. No Turkish and no
English as usual. There‟s snow by the road and it‟s very cold. She appears to be in her
fifties, about five feet tall, wearing layered scarves, cotton trousers and a windbreaker, with a
lovely face. I give her a chocolate bar and she puts it in her pocket. We both say a lot that
neither understands but I show her that we sleep in the van. We think that she invites us to
her house but of course we have to keep driving. We continue for a couple of miles uphill
where she asks us to stop. This must be where her goats live. We all get out, John lifts out
her bundle, she adjusts her scarf, and we take her photo. She hugs us and blows us kisses.
It‟s quite emotional.
We head along a very icy patch of road in first gear, through beautiful snow covered
countryside with stunted oaks, stone walls topped with brushwood, lambs in the snow, and a
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lingering goaty smell in the van. We‟re elated. The Turkish army got us moving, and now
we‟ve been able to help this tough little woman.
Patchwork Columns
When we return to the coast, Ayvalik Peninsula and little islands appear, sitting in a
gleaming sea. Stopping to make coffee, we‟re watching a procession of lorries roar past
when there‟s a loud bang. We see a car on the roadside with its side dented and windows
smashed. The lorry that crashed into them hasn‟t stopped. We can‟t help them so we hit the
road again, along the coast, through steep hills covered with ancient olives.
At Kucukkuyu there are holiday apartments for miles, all with solar panels on the
roof. Mt Ida is hiding behind cloud, but we‟re beside the dark turquoise, sparkling sea, with
laden orange and mandarin trees all around. Then, much to my delight, the mist clears and
Mt Ida (Kaz Dagi, nearly six thousand feet) clears, with big rocky bluffs and snow on the top.
There are coppiced olive trees with trunks two feet in diameter, and we‟re surprised to
see gum trees. It‟s a major area of horticulture with an olive nursery and old peach orchards,
and birds of prey.
We arrive at Ayvalik (which means quince orchard), a picturesque old fishing town,
all beaches and boats and beautiful views. I go into the visitors‟ centre and a gorgeous,
elegantly dressed young woman with perfect English gives me great maps and brochures of
the area. We park for the night above the harbour with wonderful views in all directions. It‟s
so cold that John has taken to sleeping in a hat and gloves.
Next morning we drive to Saramsali and we‟re thrilled to see pink and white
flamingos wading in the estuary. As we move towards them they walk away, elegantly
picking their feet up out of the water.
We see a mix of beautiful expanses of sea, hollow old olive trees, resorts, and areas of
holiday apartments. At Altinova a field of cotton has little white tufts still on the plants.
We‟ve come for the traditional market, and it takes our breath away. There is everything you
can imagine for sale. We wander around in a blissed out state admiring the quinces,
coriander, celeriac, garlic, axes, sickles, enamelled wood stoves, and fabrics, and eat big
crunchy bread rolls stuffed with meat and salad. We buy traditional women‟s head scarves,
animal bells, garlic, broccoli and huge apples. Unfortunately quinces take a long time to
cook and it would consume too much gas, so I can only look at them longingly.
The women at the market are wearing baggy trousers with elastic at the ankles, and
some of the younger ones have them made from velvet with silver patterns. Their head
scarves are covered with sequins. Some men and women wear distinctive scarves wound
tightly around their heads. We don‟t see many men and women together, just a few
contented looking couples our age. The women are in very intense groups and the men are
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drinking tea in cafes. Somehow their exotic clothing doesn‟t match the ordinary looking
apartments they return to.
Driving back to Ayvalik we see a man leading a laden camel on the other side of the
motorway. We stop to take a picture and he turns his camel to pose for us. Wild lavender is
in flower beside the road and the bougainvillea is out.
Next morning we tidy the back of the van, open it up to the sun, and John takes a
video of everything for posterity. He also takes a photo of the essentials of our life: stovetop
espresso, gaffer tape, inverter, compass, clock/thermometer, paper towels, hand sanitizer,
mobile phone and wet wipes. It‟s very hot, and we walk along the sea front where fishermen
are selling their catches laid out on the decks of their twenty foot boats. None of the fish are
over a foot in size, and one guy has seven different species. We wander down the back alleys
and see wonderful hardware and horse gear, plus as usual lots of stray cats and dogs. Two
ponies attached to carts are resting, and their covers consist of two chaff sacks stitched
together down the long side. We find an internet cafe for wireless and have cups of cay
(pronounced “chy” - beautiful black tea served in little glasses with sugar lumps).
After a few days parked in the same spot we‟re surprised one evening when a police
car pulls up beside us. I‟m in the passenger seat reading and John‟s in the back, and they‟re
in a plain car with no identification, so I‟m not happy talking to them. I get John, they show
their badges, and ask if everything is OK, or if we‟ve broken down. John tells them we‟re
fine and they drive off. It‟s only later that we realise the lights have been left on and the
battery is flat again! Next morning John goes on a mission in a taxi to an auto electrician,
comes back with a mechanic who tests the battery and puts in a new one, goes back into town
to pay, then returns again in a taxi. We vow to never let this happen again.
Next day we take the back road inland via Kozak, towards Bergama. It‟s steep and
rocky, but very green. The rock is white like marble, and there are tiny umbrella pines, and
low stone walls forming terraces with ancient grapevines between them. Beautiful lichen
covered rocks are scattered everywhere, with gorgeous larger pines, and lots of undergrowth.
As we get higher, Turkey oaks with bright brown leaves appear. The old umbrella
pines have dark grey and brown bark like snakeskin. Old snow lies beside the road and the
little stock enclosures have stone walls, brushwood fences, and gates made of branches.
Then at Ayvatlar it‟s like a huge natural rock garden with snow everywhere but the road, and
piles of neatly stacked lengths of firewood. There‟s a stone merchant nearby with all his
stone cut to size, hooded crows, and cows. We head down steeply in heavy rain, following
the river to flats with olive groves and orchards.
Our first inkling that we‟re approaching Bergama is an ancient stone aqueduct on a
hilltop. We park in the town square and it pours with rain all night.
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After it stops raining the next day we drive up a winding road above the town to reach
the ancient acropolis high on a hill. This is Pergamum, settled by the Greeks in the 8 th
century BC, and by the 3rd century BC one of the ancient world‟s main centres of learning. It
was given to the Romans in 133 BC and became the capital of the Roman province of Asia.
We walk around the huge site in the rain for over two hours with just a handful of
other tourists. All the ruins are stone of course: temples, an arsenal, a palace, and lots of
patchwork columns where the pieces have been put back together. The most amazing thing,
apart from the description of how the Greeks brought water here from twelve miles away via
aqueducts and pipes, is the theatre which dates from the 3rd century BC. It‟s on a very steep
slope and seated ten thousand people with rows of seats running around the hillside. When I
stand at the bottom in the centre of the stage looking up, and call out, my voice is amplified
around the site. It‟s fantastic.
There was great rivalry between the Pergamum Library (established in the 2nd century
BC) and the Alexandrian Library in Egypt. The Egyptians wouldn‟t give the Greeks any
papyrus, so they invented their own parchment here (calf, sheep or goatskin). Ironically most
of the library‟s collection of two hundred thousand scrolls was given to the Alexandrian
Library by Mark Anthony when he married Cleopatra in 41 BC, after the destruction of the
Alexandrian Library‟s collection.
There‟s a three hundred and sixty degree view when the clouds clear, and we look out
to flooding in the distance, and beautiful terraced hillsides with olives and stone walls. On
the way out I see a blue rock thrush, my attention captured by its fantastic warbling call.
We do a bit of book sharing of our own later. We‟re walking around the old part of
Bergama when a man sitting outside a cafe hails us. He asks where we‟re from, invites us to
sit down, orders cay for us all and tells us his story.
Ali is sixty two and grew up in Bergama. His father was the local postman, delivering
the mail on horseback, and they were very poor. He had only five years of schooling and
later worked for four years in Germany before returning to Bergama to work as a tour guide
for groups of German tourists. He taught himself English from a book, and also listened to
the BBC on shortwave radio. He tells us that sometimes tourists give him books in English
that they‟ve finished with.
I‟m so happy to hear his story and thrilled to find a good home for the books I‟ve read
so far on the trip. I go to the van and get him “Hard Times”, “Great Expectations”, “A Tale
of Two Cities”, “Slaughterhouse Number Five”, “Portrait of a Turkish Family” and “The
Brooklyn Follies”. He‟s very pleased, looks at “Hard Times” and says “All people have hard
times”.
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He tells us that not many German tourists come now. Many of the people in the town
are unemployed. He shows us a picture of his beautiful twenty year old daughter who works
in tourism. I ask him about shepherds and goatherds as I‟ve been wondering whether they
own their own flock or work for someone else. He says they own their own flock and that
one sheep is worth about forty pounds. Someone with seventy sheep (such as his brother in
law) is wealthy. They make cheese and butter from the milk and sell it. He also tells us of a
huge market about a mile out of town.
Back in the van I pull out “Mediterranean Wildlife: a Rough Guide” published in
1990, picked up in a wonderful British charity shop. It has detailed descriptions of insects,
butterflies, birds, wildflowers, grasses, trees, soils, rocks, and animals. We‟ve now travelled
far enough south to be in the right zone for this book. Of course there are no flowers or
basking lizards at this time of year but it covers the southern Turkish coast plus Greece and
Croatia. We realise that we‟ve driven seven and a half thousand miles and visited eleven
countries, with three thousand miles and seven countries to go, more or less. Our favourite
Turkish treats? Apricot nectar, pistachio chocolate, and halva.
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Artemis and Apollo
After another night of extremely heavy rain, thunder, and lightning that lasts for
hours, we have trouble starting the van. John is unsure what the cause is, but at least it‟s not
the battery. There‟s always the worry that the van won‟t make it back to Britain...
We visit the huge market that Ali told us about, newly built and thriving. They‟re
selling the most enormous cabbages, caulis and squash, and everything is very cheap. If you
buy just one small thing like we often do, they give it to you for nothing. We keep hearing
the plaintive bleating of a baby kid that someone has on a stall with them. There is fabulous
thick woollen underwear (longjohns and tops) in all sizes plus felt jerkins, ideal for goatherds.
Everywhere people are drinking cay and a man is providing refills with a big metal pot. One
chap finishes his cay then slips the glass back into a packet of glasses for sale on his stall.
On the drive south towards Izmir the coast is all lovely inlets with islands and boats.
As usual there‟s intensive market gardening, orchards and vineyards and we see women in
full Turkish dress squatting in a field picking spinach. Gums are the favoured roadside tree
for miles. As we drive through the outskirts of Izmir there are hillsides covered in apartment
buildings and a flock of a hundred or more pelicans flies over in strict formation.
In Selcuk laden orange, lemon and olive trees line the streets. It feels very warm and
Mediterranean. We spend one night in a car park then move into the Monaco Hotel, thirteen
pounds a night, wireless in the bedroom and a huge breakfast included. There are no other
guests, and hot water only if the sun shines. The only electric socket in the room is very
loose so John uses duct tape to keep the plugs in, the toilet cistern leaks so he tapes it up and
we fill it with our kettle, and the light switch is very shaky so that gets the duct tape treatment
as well. It feels good to be so self reliant, right down to taking our little gas cooker up to the
room, and eating cans of dolmas for dinners. Next time we‟d probably bring a little electric
heater as well to surreptitiously plug in to the power.
The van is parked two floors below on the street outside and we can see it from our
balcony. Mumin runs the place, with his Canadian girlfriend Jo who tells me that in the
summer, the women working out in the fields in their heavy clothing are sometimes taken to
the hospital with sunstroke. This is while the men sit drinking tea and talking. She does two
loads of washing for us and dries it outside on the roof, which gives it a faintly smoky smell.
We feast on the internet including the eternally fraught process of making our homeward
bookings. We end up spending four nights at the Monaco, before we tear ourselves away
from the big breakfasts of bread, boiled eggs, olives, tomatoes, cucumber and jam, with
copious quantities of cay.
We‟re heading to the ancient city of Ephesus when we‟re captured in the car park by a
van driver from Yuksel Carpets who takes us back to the carpet shop, then drives us to the
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top entrance, so we can walk the length of the ruins and return to the van without having to
retrace our steps. A cunning and successful ploy as I‟d been considering buying a carpet, but
had been intimidated by the hard sell approach of every shop we passed. The salesman
explains that young women are trained in carpet weaving here for a year, then set up at home
with a loom and a market for the carpets they create. It‟s an attempt to prevent the art from
dying out.
They have four thousand carpets for sale and show us a few. They are like the most
beautiful works of art, made of wool, angora and silk, and all different sizes. The carpets are
made with a double knot, and the kilims are woven flat. We watch an expert young woman
knotting the wool and cutting it off with scissors, then someone else skimming the silk off
cocoons floating in a tub of water and spinning it. The dyes are all natural, made from onion
skins, walnuts and such like. We look at a few carpets, including some particularly beautiful
ones sold on behalf of Kurdish people from the east of Turkey. It‟s just fantastic. We
manage to escape the sales talk but I get hooked on the idea of taking one home. I decide two
things, firstly that if you had a lot of money, these carpets would be a wonderful way to spend
it, and secondly, if I was to buy a Turkish carpet, this would be a good place to do it.
Ephesus is fabulous. It‟s a beautiful sunny day and there are only a few other tourists,
bougainvillea in flower, dogs, cats, tethered horses, and a brilliant blue rock thrush.
It‟s a vast site which was on the edge of a harbour until the sea receded, with
archaeological evidence showing settlement in the area as early as 6000 BC. A site nearby
was a Greek settlement from 1000 BC, later taken over by the Persians, then the present site
came to prominence as the most important port on the Aegean, a Roman city of a quarter of a
million people. In the early days of Christianity it was an important place, with St Paul
working there, and John the Baptist and the Virgin Mary reputedly living there, and important
Councils of the Church held in the city in 431 and 449 AD.
The fabulous Library of Celsus is spectacular with its two storied facade featuring
columns in two layers. There are gates, pillars, houses, baths, latrines, beautiful wide streets
paved with smooth slabs of white marble, and best of all, the theatre. It‟s built into a very
steep hillside and seated twenty five thousand people. In later times the Romans used it for
gladiatorial fights, and not surprisingly the Christians subsequently destroyed parts of it.
Like many of these sites, what has been excavated is only the tip of the iceberg.
We drive past fields of globe artichokes to Pamucak beach which is a beautiful
expanse of brown sand and blue sky. We‟re alone except for packs of big dogs, always scary.
The camel wrestling festival is to be held here in a few days and we decide to return for it.
Back in Selcuk there are the usual Massey Ferguson tractors and trailers trundling through the
streets. Late in the day the trailers are often full of women who look exhausted after a day
working in the fields.
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The Selcuk Museum has a fascinating collection of artefacts excavated at Ephesus
from all the eras of occupation. The most beautiful is an intricate marble statue of Artemis
from the Temple of Artemis, one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. The cemetery
where gladiators were buried was discovered in 1993, and it has provided fascinating and
macabre information, with the skeletal remains analysed by medical experts. There‟s an
exhibition showing what their life was like, their weapons, and what injuries they sustained.
We find it quite sickening.
Next morning we go to the huge Selcuk market. People are selling what look to us
like weeds that they have gathered, a plant akin to a geranium. To keep warm lots of stall
holders burn paper and sticks inside old olive oil tins. A very old lady is selling beautiful
handmade socks and slippers. The socks are cream with tiny coloured flowers in a line up the
middle, and the slippers brightly coloured. We end up buying most of her socks and her
grandson on the stall next door helps to clinch the deal.
Then we head down the coast past Kusadasi and lots of coastal resorts. The orchards
have alternating rows of citrus and peach, with broad beans growing under the trees. We‟re
heading towards Bodrum, the Mediterranean, and warmer temperatures. The water tanks on
the roofs of the houses are brightly coloured, and we see McDonalds, Starbucks, and label
clothing outlet stores. Everywhere people are harvesting olives with tarpaulins laid out under
the trees. We return to the coast at Didim. It‟s twenty degrees and it feels like we‟ve
escaped from the winter at last. We‟re fascinated to see a few old Dodge, De Soto and Fargo
lorries as we drive to a glorious bay with a small port at one end called Altinkum. Ferries go
from here to the Greek island of Kos.
Slowly it dawns on us that this is a Brit enclave with real estate advertisements and
menus in English (English breakfast, roast beef, scrambled eggs on toast, tomato soup, fish
and chips). We buy a copy of The Sun. The Bank of England has set its interest rate at 1.5%,
the lowest since its inception in 1694. That can‟t be good news for the thousands of ex pats
who live around here. We spend the night parked beside the beach with a full moon rising
and the bluest sea you could imagine.
Next day we visit the Temple of the god Apollo, who had prophecy written into his
job description. Built by the Greeks in the 7th century BC, it was the second most important
oracle for the ancient Greeks, after Delphi. The temple was rebuilt several times, and
eventually destroyed by an earthquake in 1493, by which time it was a Christian church. In
its heyday there were one hundred and eight columns, but only three remain standing. One
has been left where it fell, propped up, with each piece overlapping like fallen dominoes. A
carved relief of the head of Medusa, with thickly twined curls, is still beautiful after two
millennia.
The main walls of the temple are all intact and look original. Often sites like this one
have been cannibalised over the centuries to build other structures, and the small pieces of
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metal that held the big chunks of marble together have been crow barred out. But this is the
most intact site we‟ve been to. It‟s stunning. We‟ve seen so much of the Greeks and we
haven‟t even got to Greece yet!
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Chapter 8 Turkey
11 January – 8 February
The Gender Gap
From Didim we head inland past Lake Bafa with craggy mountains, flocks of coots,
orange rock, and olives right down to the water‟s edge. The olive harvest is in full swing, in
an area where the countryside is completely covered in olive trees. Women hit the branches
with sticks then squat to gather the olives off tarpaulins spread underneath the trees. We
wonder how long it takes to do each tree, or a hillside.
The conditions are perfect for mid winter - hot and sunny. We notice that the olive
trees on the steep rocky parts are small, and the ones on the flatter, more fertile land are huge.
As we drive past small factories the aroma of olive oil just hangs in the air. A horse and
donkey with pack saddles are resting after the arduous job of delivering sacks of olives to the
roadside.
Some trees on the steepest hills have little stone walls built around their feet to protect
the soil from erosion, and there‟s the odd fire of prunings and scrub. Little houses are dotted
around and on the flat there are citrus orchards, cows, cabbages, sheep, and potatoes. No-one
should ever go hungry in Turkey.
Back home a year later I read that wild olives originated in Turkey (Asia Minor), and
people there were harvesting them as early as 7000 BC.
Driving into the town of Milas, beside a river we see a Gypsy camp of large tents,
their walls anchored with stones, and washing pegged out. We head south, towards distant
blue hills and islands, to Bodrum, planning to soak up the Mediterranean heat for a few days
before turning round and beginning our homeward journey.
Bodrum was known as Halicarnassus in ancient Greece. Herodotus, believed to be
the first historian of the Western world, was born here in about 484 BC. Nowadays it‟s a
very popular tourist destination, with its beautiful climate, beaches, boats, ancient ruins and
historic buildings. We find a place to park on a hill above the marina then walk down to a
bar for chips, koftes and beers, and watch Manchester United beat Chelsea on the tele. The
other punters are all locals, one woman knitting beside her husband.
Next morning we go in search of a picnic table where I can type an email and John
can cook a curry for dinner. We find one at a high point where the locals stop for a break at
the start of the Bodrum peninsula. A couple of jolly women in their fifties pull over for a
smoke and ask us for a coffee when they see our stovetop espresso in action. We make them
one and have a faltering conversation. They speak German, having worked in Germany.
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They tell us that the huge holiday mansions on the hillside, with their pools on the cliff face,
and the houses in the distance, are all owned by Brits. Later we hear that seventy thousand
Brits live in Didim, and twenty thousand Turks.
Back in Bodrum we find a great place to park right beside a quiet beach near the
deserted cruise liner terminal. The occasional person walks past and there are a few stray
cats. In the evening as it grows dark John watches a couple of men head out in their boats.
Next day we visit the huge indoor clothing and textile market and have a great trawl
through the tablecloths, shawls and clothes. Most interesting are the women sitting on the
path leading into the market, selling their own olives in jars, vegetables, dried figs, flowers,
sewing and knitting. We buy some dried figs which are moist and delicious with an almond
inside each one. At the news agents we have a feast of papers, with Newsweek, the Herald
Tribune and The Times available, plus two Turkish papers in English, Today‟s Zaman and
Daily News offering a fascinating insight into Turkey.
A column written by an ex pat woman points me in the direction of the World
Economic Forum‟s “Global Gender Gap” report. I find it online and Turkey‟s results are
sobering. Out of 130 countries compared in 2008 on the basis of the status and health of their
women, Turkey comes in at 123rd, while New Zealand is 5th. The indicators cover things like
literacy, school and university enrolment, political power, number of women in parliament,
employment, and whether women giving birth have a trained health professional present.
The results don‟t surprise me as women here seem to be invisible a lot of the time. It‟s rare
to see a woman driving. This gives me a lot to think about. It‟s one thing to be a tourist in
Turkey, but quite another to be a Turkish woman living here.
Bodrum is full of little narrow streets with gift shops and cafes catering to the huge
summer tourist influx. There‟s an area on the beach where the cafes put their tables and
chairs on the sand. It‟s consistently warm, with the temperature in the back of the van in the
heavenly range of sixteen to nineteen. Boats dominate the waterfront with everything from
the tiniest dinghies and fishing boats, to huge motor yachts with enormous masts, just like
Cook‟s Endeavour, available to take people for cruises. Turkish flags flutter from most of
them. Fishermen‟s nets are left lying on the wharves, and garden centres leave their plants
outside overnight. It says a lot about theft in a Moslem country.
The whole area seems to be built on brightly coloured rock, a mixture of orange,
yellow and brown, with hillsides excavated to create building platforms for brilliant white
houses. Huge gums with silvery trunks and tiny leaves are the dominant trees. The houses
are immaculate, but on the flat there are still muddy backyards with hens and ducks, and the
ubiquitous tractors. The bays and islands emerge from the bluest sea.
After a few nights parked beside the beach, we decide that we may be becoming too
much of a fixture, so we move to Gumbet a couple of bays along, and park in an area where
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small boats are moored. Just before midnight we‟re woken by a police car pulling in behind
the van with its lights flashing. They shine a torch into the cab then hit the side with a
truncheon. John climbs into the front, winds down the window and talks to them. When he
asks to see their identification, one explodes in anger. There‟s no mucking around as they
order him out of the van in his t-shirt, boxers and socks, and ask to see our passports. Once
again “Midnight Express” looms large in his thoughts. Meanwhile I lie in the back hoping
that they won‟t want me to get out. John tells them we‟re tourists, and the English speaking
policeman says “I can see that!” and laughs. He says that they check out all vehicles parked
in the area. They become quite friendly before driving away. After that I can‟t get back to
sleep, with the resident geese carrying on, and one of the stray dogs whimpering round the
van, so I read the chapter about the killing of the suitors in “The Odyssey”.
John‟s not worried about the occasional difficulty starting the van now which is good.
Also the problem of leaving the lights on has been solved by attaching a large dangling “evil
eye” key ring to the car keys, and writing the word “lights” in black felt pen by the keyhole in
the driver‟s door. The keys are now very awkward and it‟s a great reminder to turn off the
lights. But our beloved compass, a sphere floating inside a clear ball of liquid, stuck to the
inside of the windscreen, has stopped working. Some of the fluid has evaporated or leaked
out. John manages to fix it by making a hole in the outer ball and topping it up with CRC so
the compass floats again.
We visit the Bodrum Underwater Archaeology Museum, housed in the 15th century
Castle of St Peter, which was built by the Knights Hospitaller (Crusaders) when they
captured Bodrum. It‟s on a rocky peninsula enclosed by the sea on three sides, with five
towers, each built by a different country (England, France, Spain, Germany and Italy). We
walk around the ramparts and look down at the wild sea, now washing underneath all those
groovy cafes on the beach. Virtually everything in the museum was recovered from under
the sea in the Bodrum area, the first finds made by sponge divers, with later expeditions and
the establishment of the museum coordinated by the Institute of Nautical Archaeology
(U.S.A).
At the start there‟s a collection of amphora, the shipping containers of the ancient
world, dating back to the 14th century BC. These ingenious narrow necked pottery storage
vessels, each with a pointed bottom, were stacked in the holds of ships. Most are the size of
two wine boxes one on top of the other. They were used for centuries to transport wine, oil,
grain, milk, meat, poultry, fish, cheese, beans, fruit, herbs, nuts, sugar, kohl and gum Arabic.
When amphora are discovered on a wreck it makes it easier for archaeologists to work out the
date the ship sank.
The best exhibit is the wreck of the 14th century BC ship the Uluburun which was
discovered off Kas: the oldest shipwreck to have ever been excavated. It was discovered in
1982 at a depth of forty four to sixty one metres. Since the divers could spend only about
twenty minutes at a time under the water, it took twenty two thousand dives and eleven years
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to bring everything to the surface. There‟s a full size replica of the ship lying on the seabed,
plus exhibition cases displaying some of the eighteen thousand items recovered. The cargo
included ten tons of copper ingots (probably mined in Cyprus) and one ton of tin ingots
(probably mined in Afghanistan or Iran).
The wonderful exhibits from the Uluburun include a little hinged wooden writing
tablet containing wax, amber beads, bronze fish hooks and chisels, stone mortars, axe heads,
lead fishing net sinkers, tiny weights in the shape of a lioness, sphinx, cow, frog, duck and
fly, ancient seals, flat golden pendants three inches across, and purple glass ingots. All seem
that much more magical after three millennia under the sea.
It‟s hard to tear ourselves away from the Mediterranean ambience of Bodrum and
head back north into the winter. After heavy rain and thunderstorms overnight it‟s a beautiful
clear morning as we reluctantly hit the road. The distant hills appear sharply volcanic in the
clear light and a couple of little Turkish naval vessels sit at the wharf. Back at the Gypsy
camp we see that the tents have chimneys, and the fires are going. It‟s cold, but people are
out harvesting olives. We take a different route, inland from Milas towards Yatagan.
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We Three Kings
The countryside is steep and stony at first with pines and shrubs growing out of rock,
and olives growing on the flat parts at the bottom of the valley. We pass two areas where
bees are fed over the winter: hundreds of blue and white hives laid out in rows. Minarets and
houses peep out of the forest. It‟s an extremely picturesque landscape that reminds us of the
Lake District - all moss, rocks and beautiful trees.
Stone walls run for miles, and also marble walls, with chunks of marble littered
everywhere and even marble shingle on the road. Little containers of milk have been set out
at the roadside for collection by a lorry with large plastic containers on the back. We see a
woman tipping her tiny container into one. We arrive at Eskihisir and there‟s an open cast
lignite mine stretching for miles. A couple are harvesting a huge olive tree while their
donkey waits patiently.
On the next leg of the journey we pass through a spectacular landscape of huge rocks
where even the culverts are made of marble. There are very deep ditches at each side of the
road and a lorry coming the other way has ended up in one. The driver is leaning against the
median barrier looking embarrassed. Smooth rocks the size of lorries sprout like butterscotch
mushrooms out of the hillsides. The rocks and vegetation contain all shades of green, peach
and grey. It‟s very grand, like the backdrop to a Western.
The landscape then morphs into agriculture with olives, cattle, stone walls, wild
lavender, a cowshed, and the odd car parked beside the road while people harvest their olives.
We enter the lower Menderes Valley with cotton fields and a cotton mill. There are old
functioning brickworks, horticulture, and fig orchards. All the towns have heavy smog from
coal fires.
When we arrive back at the Monaco Hotel in Selcuk we‟re told that Mumin and Jo are
out “catching mushrooms”, but they have a room for us. We sit down for a chat with an older
man at reception. When we discuss safe parking while travelling he says there‟s a Turkish
saying “Tie your horse up well then it‟s up to God”.
In the square there‟s a parade of twenty camels decked out in colourful felt blankets,
decorations and bells. They have a harness, a wooden frame on their back, and a large bell
with a smaller one inside it at the front by their withers. Each time they take a step the bells
clang. Their fur is very thick, their feet huge and fat, and the ones wearing muzzles are
foaming at the mouth. Some have a major attitude problem and lunge forward unpredictably,
making the crowds of people scatter. Most are led by two men with ropes but some have a
leg chain as well. Bulls on parade at an A & P show are passive in comparison.
There are two bands, each with loud drums, a kind of clarinet and a loud wooden
recorder. Some teenage boys perform a traditional dance in navy blue outfits with bloomers.
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The town is packed with people and you can pick the few tourists by their cameras. We go
out for lunch: roasted meatballs in tomato and onion, thick meat pizza, and a kind of naan
bread. While we‟re sitting outside eating, the cafe staff keep shooing away a young woman
begging with a baby. Later, outside the mosque, John gives her some money, and as he‟s
reaching into his pocket a man puts his hand out for money as well. The woman immediately
goes to a stall to buy fish.
The camel wrestling the next day is like an old fashioned country sports day with
Biblical overtones. Something about the sight of a line of camels all following each other,
and especially a group of three camels, has Christmas card written all over it.
We arrive by dolmus (minibus) with the locals and are deposited into a huge crowd,
with vehicles and people for miles. Soldiers on the gate are directing everyone past a metal
detector, and others patrol the perimeter with AK47s. A very steep hill looks down onto a
flat area, forming a natural amphitheatre. There‟s forest at the top of the hill, and like a battle
standard, a huge banner flaps in the breeze. It‟s painted with the image of Mustafa Kemal
Ataturk‟s head.
Our first impression is the wonderful smell coming from the thick haze of smoke
hanging over everything. People have brought their barbeques and fired them up with wood
from the forest. Everywhere meat is sizzling. There‟s hardly a woman to be seen and no
other tourists in sight.
Seventy camels are decked out in their finery, with words emblazoned across the
back. We‟re told that they are not working camels but owned by rich men, so perhaps it‟s a
bit like owning a racehorse. They parade in the ring in groups then fight one on one. They
mainly wrestle with their necks. There aren‟t a lot of clear victories, and a couple of times
one makes a dash for the exit, with its opponent in hot pursuit. The announcer builds up the
tension, and the stewards scatter. The camels are loose cannons and seem to be only
grudgingly domesticated, like they‟re just biding their time. They sit and lie down a lot if
they get the chance, in a passive aggressive kind of way. They don‟t smell very good at all.
There‟s lots of food for sale but no visible betting although it apparently does take place.
We meet a couple our age, she a Canadian, he a Kiwi. They‟re retired and have been
living on a thirty five foot yacht for seven years, with no house back home, just living off
their pensions, with trips back to Canada and New Zealand. We find that we have a lot in
common to talk about including the joys of the simple confined life, and the indispensability
of wet wipes. Well that‟s the women. The men discuss safety at sea and the economics of
our style of travel.
On the subject of wet wipes, we‟ve become dependent on them as showers are
infrequent. Everything is relative though as I discover back home at New Year 2010 when
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we hear that women on the Commonwealth Antarctic Expedition, who have just skied to the
South Pole, were rationed to one wet wipe each per day for thirty eight days. Respect!
On our way back to the hotel we get the dolmus to stop at Yuksel Carpets where we
buy two Turkish carpets made of lambswool, both with a red background and little flowers,
very traditional and beautiful. The shop arranges postage of them back to New Zealand for
us. Little do we realise that this is the beginning of a very intense love affair with carpets and
kilims which won‟t let go of us until we‟re well into Bosnia, or to be really honest, it will
probably never leave us.
Back at the hotel we drink beer, eat crisps and canned dolmas, and blitz all our
internet searching, emailing, skyping and downloading of photos. Next morning we have an
early start, heading towards Bursa.
We retrace our steps north on smooth motorway, across wonderful fertile agricultural
land. There are vast fields of red cabbages, and we see women harvesting leeks and
arranging them in beautiful upright bundles a foot across. The buzzards are out as we head
inland from Izmir through steep forest.
Whenever we drive up behind someone in a headscarf driving a tractor I think it‟s a
woman, then when we pass we see that it‟s a man with the black and white scarf giving that
distinctive Yasser Arafat look.
We come across thirty stands selling terracotta pottery, many with tents and chimneys
attached. A man in a suit is driving a tractor, and a man on a donkey comes towards us on
the other side of the motorway. Coming into Balikesir we see a large army compound with
watchtowers, bunkers, and soldiers, as three birds of prey circle together. We pass through
Susurluk then stop for lunch and see two big black shiny ravens. Then a vast stud farm with
beautiful riding horses stretching as far as the eye can see on both sides of the road with at
least twenty brick stable blocks, each the size of two or three houses. Is this the Sultan‟s stud
farm we wonder. Onion stalls line the roadside for miles, with a few of last year‟s rotten
onions swinging in the breeze.
At three in the afternoon, after a mammoth drive of two hundred and forty miles, we
park at a truck stop within striking distance of Bursa. I unpack the gear from our hotel stay,
make the dinner (vegetable salad of canned beans, onion, parsley, red pepper and avocado),
and put the mattress down. John lies across the front seat facing north, looking towards the
sunset over Lake Ulubat Golu, with a welcome can of beer. It‟s peaceful and relaxing in
spite of the line of lorries driving past on the road beside us, and the noise of all the comings
and goings from the truck stop. There‟s a mosque and we hear the call to prayer.
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New Glow Plugs
We wake to a glorious morning and feel very safe when we see enormous lorries on
three sides. In front of us there‟s a fence and a view over a hillside which slopes towards us,
a patchwork of green crop, ploughed earth, olives and a few houses. At this most excellent of
truck stops there are shops, a restaurant and a barber, as well as the mosque. John speaks to
the Turkish driver next door and when he tells him we‟re from New Zealand the guy says
“sheep”. We do have that in common with the Turks.
At Bursa we park in a supermarket car park and catch the bus into town. No tickets?
No problem to the bus driver. We visit the statuesque old hans which used to provide shelter
and accommodation for the camel trains, have a look in a posh shop, and buy some lovely
scarves to give to people back home. There‟s a photo of the Queen on the wall. She shopped
here last year!
The beautiful mountain right beside the town, Ulubat (8000 feet), suddenly clears and
we see thick snow on the top. We catch the bus back to the supermarket with the help of
Murat, a charming young man who comes over when he sees us looking confused at the
ticket counter. He sits with us on the bus and as we chat we discover that he lives in Kadikoy
in Istanbul, the suburb where we‟re planning to stay in a few days‟ time. We exchange phone
numbers.
John‟s worried that the van is getting harder to start first thing in the morning, so he
goes looking for a garage. At the first garage the mechanic insists on escorting him to
another place round the corner. The next mechanic insists on driving him to a third garage
which specialises in Mercedes and other German makes. With a diagram and a few words
written in Turkish John explains the problem. All the men in the garage converge and hang
around watching with great fascination and laughter. The mechanic says he can fix it, John
indicates his watch, asking when, and he says to bring it in now. No-one speaks English up
to this point.
We drive along the road to the garage. The mechanic comes out, looks under the
bonnet surrounded by a flock of apprentices, and works out very quickly that we need two
new glow plugs. He can get them straight away and have the job done in a couple of hours.
He jumps into the driver‟s seat and drives into the garage with me in the passenger‟s seat.
They all have a good laugh at the steering wheel on the right hand side.
When the parts arrive he shows them to John to verify that they are legit Mercedes
parts. We‟re in there for over an hour, and a lovely smiling headscarfed woman keeps
bringing rounds of cay on a tray for the workers and customers. One customer who has lived
in Germany and speaks a little English does some interpreting but mainly John and the
mechanic sort things out together. He quotes 140 Turkish lira and that‟s how much it costs.
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When John goes into the office to pay, he offers 160 Turkish plus 50 Turkish for the workers.
The man in the office insists on giving 10 Turkish change and suggests that he give the extra
to the mechanic in charge of the job. The guy holds the note up above his head and waves it
around with a big smile. They are all very charming and laid back and it‟s been a very
entertaining time for all of us.
We park for the night along the road from the garage, and look back on how many
different people have helped us in one day. First of all the bus driver was quite relaxed about
us not having a ticket. Then when we got off the bus a man saw us looking confused and
took us to the visitors‟ centre. Later when we returned to the visitors‟ centre to ask where we
could find a shop selling camping gas, another man took us a long way down back streets to a
hunting shop. Then when we were ready to catch the bus back to the van, Murat caught our
eye, bought the tickets for us, introduced himself, came on the bus with us, and told us he
lived in Istanbul and could show us around when we got there. Then there were the men at
the first two garages who got John to the correct garage. It‟s been quite a day.
Next morning we‟re sitting in the front seat when the mechanic drives up and stops
beside us. He winds down his window and with a wry smile mimes turning the key. John
gives him the thumbs up as he‟s already cranked up the motor to test it out. More laughs all
round.
We catch the bus into town and sit down by the huge statue of Mustafa Kemal on his
horse. In Turkish towns directions are often given in relation to the Ataturk statue. But there
is usually more than one. We sit there eating our home made sandwiches and a cay seller
circulates taking orders. We signal our order.
A couple of boys of about eighteen come over to us for a chat. When we tell them
we‟re from New Zealand they mime the haka. One is very fluent in English and they‟re keen
to hear how we like Turkey. We discuss President Obama (they are very pleased with him
and seem to take it quite personally), Israel and Palestine (they are unhappy that the Turkish
government is so friendly with Israel and does nothing to help the Palestinians), music (they
love Coldplay and Travis), football (one Manchester United fan, one Chelsea), the recent
game between the two teams, and how Turkish women fancy coach Jose Mourinho just like
the Brit ones do! They‟re studying for their university entrance exams. One wants to do
computer engineering, the other veterinary science. One wants to go to England one day.
They tell us that people in Turkey don‟t have material wealth but they have other qualities.
Honesty and friendliness are mentioned. It‟s an intense conversation.
They go back to class and we catch the Telerific up Mt Ulubat. We get off in thick
snow and complete stillness and we‟re not surprised to find the fundamentals of Turkish life:
a mosque, a stray dog, and someone selling simit, the delicious sesame encrusted buns.
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When we arrive back in town again we go into a tiny supermarket to buy mince and
spinach for dinner. There‟s a public address system with a man‟s voice speaking. It‟s not the
specials but a broadcast from the local mosque. We‟re in bed by seven that night.
For two nights we park outside a school and on both mornings the children are
hanging out the upstairs windows waving, laughing and calling out to us in English. As we
drive out of town we call into a huge new mall with a Kipa (Tesco) supermarket. There are
guards and a metal detector on the door, not a good atmosphere for shopping.
We head towards Mudanya a port on the Sea of Marmara. As we drive into a suburb
of apartment blocks right on the water‟s edge we discover a market spread along a few
streets. We buy some pumpkin and pieces of lace, and enjoy a complimentary glass of cay.
Then we drive through steep country with olives right down to the sea, and stop for the night
at Kursunlu on the waterfront.
A family is parked nearby at a picnic table with a fire burning. The man comes over
and speaks in German, proudly introducing his grandson who is fishing. When we light the
Kelly kettle later he brings us over some woodchips which are the perfect fuel. They have
their lunch and we have ours, very companionable, looking out over a wonderful expanse of
glassy water. When I start washing the dishes in a bowl on our picnic table the woman next
door catches my eye with a sisterly look.
They drive off and it‟s very peaceful, just the sea, empty holiday apartments, and the
odd car passing. There are coots and terns in the sea and huge flocks of starlings. The
evening call to prayer is amplified across the water.
I start reading “A Time of Gifts” by Patrick Leigh Fermor, an account of his walk
from Rotterdam to Slovakia, en route to Constantinople (Istanbul), in 1933 at the age of
eighteen, written forty years after the event. It‟s fascinating, beautifully written and
pleasingly full of detail. Interestingly he describes numerous acts of kindness from the
people he meets.
Kadikoy
In the morning it‟s peaceful and warm with a calm sea. A heron flies overhead, and
shags are sitting drying their wings in the sun. We fill our water container from one of two
wide pipes spilling water, by a huge trough. Apparently there are water problems and
droughts in Turkey but you‟d never know it. We drive over beautiful river flats with rich
soil, where peach, fig and olive trees are being pruned then past the massive port of Gemlik
and a Mittal steel works. As we get onto the motorway we see old snow on the hills in the
distance and feel very lucky to be travelling in such fantastic conditions in the middle of
winter. We‟re pulled up by the police who are checking seatbelts, then see huge textile and
silk factories, and a petrochemical plant.
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The ever present military has a naval base with high watchtowers on the water‟s edge.
In a built up area, big wharves and ships contrast with a horse and cart carying four people.
Then we see a couple with a horse and cart on a six lane motorway. We stop to make a
coffee and see another cart with two Gypsy women on board. We wave to them and they
wave back and smile.
As we follow the island studded coast on an eight lane motorway north west towards
Istanbul, we see factories, massive piles of coal, cranes, ship building, shipping and smog.
As well as the lorries there are slow vehicles and people overtaking fast on the inside.
Eventually we see signs for Kadikoy and we‟re tense as we drive down busy streets, but end
up in a cheap car park where a solicitous young attendant manages to find some schoolboys
who speak English to interpret for us. With the van safely parked and guarded we go for a
walk and buy a map of Kadikoy. It‟s an old suburb on the Asian side of Istanbul and we‟ve
chosen to base ourselves here to avoid the hurly burly of traffic and tourists on the European
side.
We get some English papers and read an article in the Guardian about the trial in
Turkey of policemen charged with the torture and murder of a young protester in custody.
He had been protesting about the injury of someone else held in custody. It‟s seen as a
landmark trial.
The car park empties out at ten and some boy racers arrive to do wheelies. I get
nervous and wake John up, and we move the van to a safe corner. Strangely, at the same
time, a little car containing three elderly people repeatedly drives forward then reverses, and
we realise that someone is having driving lessons!
Early next morning we go exploring for a better place to park and find the perfect
spot, a small private car park on a narrow cobbled street that leads steeply down to the port
where we‟ll catch the ferry across to the European side. It‟s very peaceful with a derelict
building at the rear, and deserted backyards on each side. The two attendants seem happy to
have us park in the back corner, never dreaming that we‟ll stay for two weeks! Crying
seagulls and ferry horns are a constant background. If we walk for two minutes towards the
port, past cafes, old apartment buildings and the odd little hotel, across the water we can see
the famous Sultanahmet quarter of old Istanbul with its exotic Turkish roof lines.
We spend the day exploring the shops, especially the second hand ones. There seem
to be no tourists in Kadikoy, the shopkeepers don‟t speak English, and this makes it very
relaxing. One shop run by a very old man has a narrow walkway down the middle with old
things piled up to head height on each side. Whenever we ask the price of something he tells
us a high price as though he can‟t bear to part with anything. One thing that fascinates me is
a tailoring apprentice‟s sample piece - different pocket styles done on cream silk.
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On the street we‟re befriended by a seventy five year old man who speaks English and
used to be in the Turkish navy working on submarines. Then we find a bookshop with a
great collection of books in English and I buy three books about Turkey: “Memet My Hawk”
byYasar Kemal, “In Jail With Nazim Hikmet” by Orhan Kemal, and “Birds Without Wings”
by Louis de Bernieres.
Next day we catch the ferry across the Bosphorous to Eminonu on the European side fifty pence each way, past ships, ferries and fishing boats. There‟s a relaxed attitude towards
safety with the passengers jumping off onto the wharf while there‟s still a gap and the
gangplank isn‟t in place. John loves that.
Exploring the pet shops near the Spice Bazaar we see beautiful tropical fish, quail,
hens, geese and turtles, and some desperate looking puppies. We‟re fascinated to see leeches
for sale in the garden shops. Back outside wherever we look there are minarets. We walk up
the hill towards the Aya Sofia, stopping on the way to look in a carpet shop where John does
some haggling over a piece of embroidered silk with a man who speaks excellent French.
John ends up not buying but it‟s a very pleasant experience.
The Aya Sofya was built by the Byzantine Emperor Justinian in the 6th century AD
and it was regarded as the greatest Christian church for centuries. After 1453 when the
Ottomans, led by Mehmet the Conqueror, took over Constantinople (the old name for
Istanbul), the Aya Sofya was turned into a mosque with the addition of minarets, tombs and
fountains. In 1935 Mustafa Kemal Ataturk made it a museum.
The main dome is nearly two hundred feet high, creating a wonderful sense of
openness. The exterior is a subtle combination of brick and stone, while the interior has awe
inspiring Byzantine mosaics in gold from the 9th and 10th centuries, plus walls decorated with
intricate Ottoman era tiles from the 16th century: flower patterns in blue, white, red and green.
It‟s a glorious mix of the best of Christian and Moslem architecture and design.
On the way home we sit outside on the ferry next to a family who are feeding the
gulls which trail behind. As the bread is thrown up into the air, the gulls which are only a
few feet away at head height, swoop down and catch it. If one misses, another one grabs it.
It seems to be a local tradition, hugely entertaining.
We spend the next day in Kadikoy and discover a carpet shop that‟s having a sale. I
buy two cheap and beautiful forty year old carpets, a small brown one and a large pink and
green one. As we leave the shop after a lot of bonhomie and hand shaking the young
assistant (there‟s always a young assistant) calls out “I love Turkey!”
We take our laundry to the Daisy Laundry around the corner, then in a back street
junk shop we find an old round metal tray with three brass supports leading to a ring at the
top where you hook your finger. It‟s used to deliver cay and we buy it with great excitement.
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We notice that Kadikoy has lots of young people and not many women in head scarves.
After a rather strange lunch of a thick square of spinach topped with a rubbery egg from a
tiny cafe, we see a man on a street corner with a little photocopier on a trolley running off a
generator. We stash the carpets back in the van, laid out flat under the mattress.
We‟re determined to find the local market and go on a wild goose chase walking for
miles, but it‟s elusive. We ask an older man for directions and he asks us if we would like a
cay. We sit down and have a glass, then when we offer to pay he makes that lovely Turkish
gesture of “from me to you” touching his heart and then flourishing his open hand towards
us. A man who speaks English joins us and he turns out to have an outdoor shop down the
road where we spend up large on cooking gas for our stove.
Back at the van a film crew has taken over the car park with their vans, electricity
generators and glasses of cay. It‟s a glorious sunny day and we walk in to the main street of
Kadikoy to meet up with our new friend Murat who helped us in Bursa. He takes us to the
Balloon cafe on the waterfront where we sit outside, drink cay, eat delicious food, and talk.
We‟re fascinated to hear about Murat‟s life and family. He‟s a Kurd from near
Tunceli in the east of Turkey. When he was young and still lived there he used to take the
family‟s sheep out to grass before school. They had to be brought back by six at night
because after that the army shot at anything that moved. His family moved to Bursa (where
his parents worked in factories) for the children‟s education and a better life. He went to
university in Kayseri and qualified as a cameraman. Last year he made a film about his
friend‟s grandfather who lives in the country in Eastern Turkey. The photos he took of the
old man are exhibited in a gallery nearby and he takes us there to see them and meet his
friends.
Murat tells us that he and his family belong to a branch of Islam called Alevi which
has twenty million followers in Turkey. They don‟t go to mosques. I read later that their key
beliefs are: love and respect for all people, tolerance towards other religions and ethnic
groups, respect for working people, and the equality of men and women. Murat is a shining
example of these beliefs, and he tells us that he believes in the goodness of people. He says
that if there had been time after we met in Bursa, he would have taken us to meet his family.
We walk back to the car park and show him inside the van. He‟s quite blown away
and says that it‟s given him a lot to think about, us living in the back of a van for six months.
In Turkey when people are our age they just want to rest and watch television. It‟s not
surprising with the hard lives they lead. We show him the second hand carpets and he says
they are genuine. It‟s the icing on the cake to have a friend in Istanbul.
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Cocaine Carpets
Next day we head back to Eminonu on the ferry, and John buys a piece of beige fabric
embroidered in subtle shades of red, brown, yellow, green and blue silk. They are called
suzanis, traditional embroideries made by women of central Asia like Uzbekistan and
Turkmenistan.
Then we visit the Blue Mosque which takes its name from the tens of thousands of
patterned blue and white Iznik tiles which cover virtually the whole interior. It‟s tile heaven.
The mosque was built in the 17th century, a thousand years after the Aya Sofya, and it has the
same awe inspiring height and airiness. The atmosphere overwhelms us and we just stand
there gazing around. It‟s a functioning mosque and men are face down on the floor, while the
women are giggling and whispering after prayers in their own section at the rear. On the way
out a small boy smiles at John and says “Welcome to Turkey”.
We meet Murat and he takes us around the cheap shops of Eminonu where there is
everything from rope, clothing and animal harness to pots and pans. Perhaps it‟s our rural
backgrounds but for some reason we can never get enough of ropes, sacks, animal bells,
machetes and bridles! After the ferry ride home and feeding the gulls, we all go out for a
delicious macaroni dinner.
Next day is quiet as it rains heavily. It‟s easy to spend hours at the internet cafe
where they serve rounds of cay, then I go to the cafe next door and bring back a beautiful
lunch on a tray. People are always delivering meals on foot, on those trays with metal covers
used for room service in old movies. The Turks are experts at good food, in the warmest and
most laid back fashion.
We pick up our perfectly folded laundry from the Daisy Laundry where the workers
give us big smiles, buy some bottles of water as there‟s no tap in our car park, and retire to
the van where I make traditional chicken soup. We‟re in bed at seven with the gas light on
and cats fighting outside. It‟s a very relaxed way of life.
Next day Murat takes us to the elusive Kadikoy market by bus. There are the usual
wonderful fruit, vegetable, nut, spice, and fish stalls, but also wigs, clothing, fabrics, zips,
elastic, and buttons. I buy an Indian dress and some pieces of fine transparent curtain fabric.
We warm up in a little cafe with a liver stew. Murat tells us later that the Kurdish waiter
gave us mates‟ rates on the bill.
You‟re never far from the sea in Istanbul and there are always boats, bridges, men
fishing, gulls and activity. We‟re keen to explore the Golden Horn, the long estuary which
flows south east into the Bosphorous, and we catch the bus along the southern shore with
Murat the next day. We stop off at Balata a poor area with lots of Gypsies, and walk around
the narrow streets with their exotic shops.
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We discover a tiny second hand shop like an Aladdin‟s cave stuffed with textiles,
carpets, ancient kaftans, felt toys, bags, jewellery and ornaments. It‟s run by two charming
gay men, with a cat and kittens under the desk, and a miasma of cat pee. After carefully
scrutinising their wares we finally buy two old carpets, one a huge embroidered kilim called a
cicim from the Karapinar tribe (Konya), very rare and special, which they tell us is eighty to a
hundred years old.
Another of the joys of travelling by van is being able to take large things home so
easily. We also buy two old suzanis, one yellow from Uzbekistan and a red one from
Kyrgyzstan. We seal the deal with a round of cay, perched on the furniture in the tiny
cramped shop. We feel very lucky to have found this place as these two have an eye for
beautiful old things.
We catch a taxi to Eyup, where we sit with the locals at the Pierre Loti cafe with cay
and toasted sandwiches. Murat tells us about his six month spell of compulsory military
service (two years in prison if you refuse) stationed in eastern Turkey near the Iraq border,
being pursued by the PKK (the Kurdistan Workers‟ Party which is seeking cultural and
political rights for the Kurdish people in Turkey).
We read later that Leyla Zana a Kurdish politician was jailed for ten years in 1994 for
making a speech in Kurdish, then again in July 2009 for making a speech in May 2008 at the
School of Oriental and Asia Studies at the University of London where she said that Abdullah
Ocalan, the jailed PKK leader was “as important for the Kurdish people as the brain and soul
are for a human being”.
In that western corner of the city it‟s very Islamic with lots of headscarves, some
women all in black, old men with whiskers, many mosques, bath houses, old broken walls,
and the smell of wood smoke from food vendors. We return to Kadikoy for another macaroni
dinner and Murat tells us about his family‟s move from eastern Turkey to Bursa when he was
seven. Three families shared an apartment. They went from a self sufficient peasant lifestyle
where they had sheep, ground their own flour, and grew their own food, to living in the city.
On our next trip across in the ferry we bring bread to feed the gulls, and enjoy a
wonderful synchronicity with them as they take turns to swoop down and catch it in the air.
We walk up to Beyazit to a flea market, the Book Bazaar, and the grand old buildings of
Istanbul University. It‟s Saturday and Turkish people are out strolling. We buy a small old
carpet from Cappadocia at the flea market then have lunch in a cheap restaurant resplendent
with carpets and textiles. There are soft comfortable benches to sit on and a charcoal brazier
keeping the place warm. An old lady is sitting near the entrance with a rolling pin like a
broom handle, waiting patiently to roll out the dough for someone‟s meal. People are playing
backgammon and some are smoking nargile water pipes flavoured with fruit and lit with
charcoal from the brazier.
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Back at Kadikoy there‟s a circle of thirty young happy people dancing on the wharf,
and a man in the centre playing bagpipes with a red velvet bag similar to Irish pipes. Murat
tells us that the dance comes from up near the Black Sea.
We spend the next day in Kadikoy and buy two more old carpets. Late in the day we
wander into a shop that sells mainly nargiles and there is a tiny old carpet for sale. John falls
in love with it. Then we go into an antique shop that John‟s been into a couple of times
before, and the shopkeeper calls out “Amigo!” as we enter. John can‟t keep away from a
gorgeous fifty year old red embroidered kilim from Iran, and finally buys it. The shopkeeper
orders cay for us and we sit in the cramped shop and chat. We‟re getting better at balancing
the little tea glasses and saucers on stacks of fascinating old Turkish junk. He speaks German
but no English. With the help of the dictionary and a bit of German he tells us that his
grandfather fought at Gallipoli. The German comes from his twenty years working at a
factory in Nuremberg. Then he takes us to meet his son at a shop a few doors along.
We love Kadikoy. Let me describe a typical evening there. On this particular
evening I think that I could stay forever. I walk from the car park to the shops fifty yards up
the hill. The narrow bustling streets contain butchers, bakers, greengrocers, hardware shops,
cake shops, cafes, and a couple of small supermarkets. I buy some chicken and fresh
vegetables for dinner, some dried apricots and bottles of water. The people in the shops are
always polite. It‟s growing dark. A man on the corner has a handcart containing assorted
junk and some chaps are picking through it. The cafes are full of men smoking and playing
cards. It feels exotic yet comfortable. I walk back down Uzunhafizi Sokak to the car park at
number thirty two and the sea at the bottom of the street is glassy. I keep my eyes down as I
pass the two car park guys. One of the advantages of being a woman travelling in Turkey is
that you can completely ignore all men.
The Subterraneans
It‟s a momentous day when we visit the Istanbul Archaeological Museum, built at the
direction of archaeologist Osman Bey in 1891 to house his finds. Osman Bey was also
instrumental in the passage of the 1884 Act of Antiquities which made all antiquities the
property of the state, so they couldn‟t be removed from Turkey. Visiting the museum is an
overwhelming experience as the collections are vast and of a very high quality.
First of all we look at the collection of things discovered under Istanbul during the
current excavations to extend the metro line. This is a huge and ongoing excavation and the
finds include: Ottoman pottery from the 15th to the 17th century (intricate, in blue and white,
like Iznik tiles), a sewage system and a bath house, a mosaic floor from the 6th century (partly
destroyed, and under it eighty one skeletons from much earlier), 7th century pots with human
faces, ivory game pieces which are probably chess from the 7th century, wooden and leather
sandals from the 7th century displayed in water, bone dice from the 7th century, an ivory chess
piece from the 11th century, and a shipwreck from the 11th century. Twenty one shipwrecks
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have been discovered from an ancient port dating back to Roman times, uncovered at
Yenikapi in 2006.
There‟s a vast collection from the Roman and Byzantine periods, glass bracelets,
relief sculptures, so many perfect things. A life size bronze sculpture of a wild boar is there
from the 5th century BC, with every hair perfect. Other things that we love are very beautiful
thick gold bracelets from the 7th and 11th centuries, a 6th century bronze bucket, and 6th
century stone pulpits from Salonica. On the more gruesome side are Egyptian mummies and
coffins, one mummy exposed to show the skull and bindings. The skeleton of a king with
tissue still clinging to it is a great hit with some young women who take lots of photos.
The museum was built to house the finds from the Necropolis of Sidon from 500 BC,
dug up in Lebanon, which was part of the Ottoman empire in the 19th century. The photos of
Osman Bey‟s expedition show bullock carts with wooden discs for wheels transporting huge
stone items to be shipped to Turkey. It‟s astonishing that in the late 19th century they were
able to move stone burial chambers (up to six feet high and ten feet long, intricately carved
with horses and battle scenes) thousands of miles, without causing them any damage. The
piece de resistance is the Alexander Sarcophagus which shows Alexander the Great beating
the Persians in a battle, intricately carved around the outside of a large stone burial chamber.
There‟s also a stone sarcophagus collection from Crete, Salonica, Ephesus and
Lebanon, and some decorated lead coffins from Roman times. A stone coffin standing on its
end is decorated with a small painted sphinx, horses and chariots, and dogs.
Many of the finds from Troy are housed here: tiny pottery heads, vessels, lamps,
knives, needles, large pottery jars, and gold jewellery. The Iron Age Anatolia collection has
ancient bits for horses, axe heads and the moulds for making them. From the ancient city of
Nippur (in present day Iraq) there are beautiful green glazed clay coffins from the 1st century
BC with relief decoration.
It‟s all so old, exquisite and perfect, we‟re quite overwhelmed and ruined for any
other museums.
The Tiled Pavilion is in the same complex as the museum, built in the 15th century
and looking a bit like a mosque. It contains small galleries where the lower walls are covered
in dark blue hexagonal tiles with white between them. It houses a collection of pottery with
some exquisite pieces in blue, white and turquoise from the 15th century. There‟s also an
early 18th century lemon squeezer in blue and white. One gallery has walls lined with fine
turquoise and gold hexagonal tiles interspersed with triangular plain dark blue, and blue and
gold ones. There are even blue tiles on the outside of the entrance. I just can‟t get enough of
them.
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The chap collecting the rubbish outside has “Istanbul European City of Culture 2010”
emblazoned on the back of his overalls and John tries in vain to discreetly take a photo of
him. There are cats everywhere. Outside, random stone sarcophagi, statues and imperfect
marble sculptures are on display, the usual overflow seen outside Turkish museums. We look
down onto huge trees in the botanic gardens. Pale green parakeets with long tails, red beaks
and spots of red on their wings fly around, and a heron flaps past.
We walk down a street of textile shops where a lorry is unloading and twenty men
with wooden pack frames on their backs carry rolls of material to shops along the street. The
men are older and it looks like back breaking work. We turn down a little street of clothes
shops and see men‟s ties displaying the image of Mustafa Kemal Ataturk. I now realise why
he was so important: he destroyed the power of the Ottomans, nationalised their property,
sent the remaining sultans into exile, and set about turning Turkey into a modern country.
Not bad for a few decades work.
Murat told me you can tell which political party a man supports by the style of his
moustache. Also a young woman may not be able to tell a young man that she loves him, so
she may wear a particularly beautiful head scarf when they meet, and let him know in that
way.
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Hello Nice Couple
We‟ve been looking forward to the boat trip up the Bosphorous, ignoring the men
selling the two hour trip, and holding out for a fine day and the six hour trip on a large boat.
We queue up with all the local tourists plus a few Americans, Brits, and a young Korean
woman, then rush on board to get really good seats in the stern on the outside. The boat takes
ninety minutes to get from Eminonu to Anadolu Kavagi near the entrance to the Black Sea,
where we stop for three hours for lunch. Winter is a quiet time for tourism and the
restaurants look like they‟re dependent on tourists with money to spend. We‟re accosted by
touts trying to entice us in for expensive fish meals. We eat our homemade sandwiches in a
courtyard near the sea then walk most of the way up to the old castle Yoros Kalesi, and stop
for cay in the sunshine looking down over the Bosphorus. It‟s gloriously sunny and the sea is
glassy, with big ships moving from the Aegean to the Black Sea. Many are tankers riding
high in the water. At Anadolu Kavagi there are fishing boats of all sizes, with the little ones
stored in cavernous areas under the houses which are built right on the water‟s edge.
Fishermen are sitting mending their nets and sorting out their lines.
On the return journey the boat zigzags back and forth between the European and
Asian sides. The Bosphorous is only about sixteen hundred feet wide at the narrowest point
and there are forts on each side from the 14th and 15th centuries. It has a Venetian feel, with
gabled and shuttered mansions right on the water‟s edge, small palaces from the Ottoman era
dotted around, and houses up to six stories high layered back up the hills. We sail under two
enormous suspension bridges, one of which we‟ll be on in three days time when we exit
Istanbul and head for Greece. We‟re not looking forward to that at all.
As usual there are military installations. Murat tells us they always have the best
pieces of land. He also tells us about his time working at Antalya on the Mediterranean coast
for a year photographing German and Russian tourists on holiday, then selling them the
photos they chose. Digital cameras killed off this kind of work.
Next day we‟re hard at it again, off to the Topkapi Palace. Going across on the ferry
we see at least thirty ships anchored in the distance. Walking up through Sultanahmet in the
heavy tourist area, within twenty yards we‟re hailed by two men outside shops, each saying
“Hello nice couple”. All we can do is laugh. We walk through the Spice Bazaar, a 17 th
century covered market, then into narrow streets where you can buy haberdashery, clothes
and curtains. Men with carrying frames are lumping huge loads of textiles. I find some of
the baggy women‟s trousers with the crutch below knee level that I‟ve been searching for.
Murat tells me they are from the east of Turkey. We stop for the first cay of the day and
watch a man bent double carrying load after load of cardboard up numerous steps to a van. A
passing local greets us with “Guten Morgen”.
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The entrance to the palace is along a wide footpath lined with plane trees on each
side, with a bed of pansies and polyanthus of different colours under each tree. In the
courtyards inside the palace there are planes, cabbage trees, cypress, magnolia and yew.
There are lots of school groups and Turkish tourists, and two Japanese women take each
other‟s picture beside a flowering japonica.
First we visit the former stables where there‟s an exhibition of some of the Ottoman
treasures: jewel encrusted objects, towels with golden thread, and such like. The Ottoman
rulers lived in the palace from 1459 to 1839 and it was an era of great excess, with enormous
privilege for a few people. Mustafa Kemal nationalised it in 1924 and turned it into a
museum.
The palace consists of several separate buildings with trees and gardens in between,
designed like a nomadic campsite. The buildings have domed roofs and big verandahs
supported with ornate stone pillars, with even the interior of the verandahs lined with tiles.
It‟s the prime spot in Istanbul, on a high promontory where the Bosphorous meets the Golden
Horn, with views across to Kadikoy and Beyoglu, and down the Bosphorous. Iznik tiles with
ornate flower patterns decorate most surfaces inside. The library is especially beautiful: tiled,
with internal window shutters lined with mother of pearl. In the Treasury, where the mantle
of Mohammed is stored, we see “John the Baptist‟s arm”, encased in silver, with a bit of bone
showing.
Next we visit the Basilica Cistern which was built in the 6th century by the Emperor
Justinian. It‟s an underground water reservoir about five hundred by two hundred and fifty
feet in area, and twenty six feet high, with three hundred and thirty six stone columns holding
up the roof. It has the capacity to store one hundred thousand tons of water which was
carried twelve miles here by aqueduct. There are two huge stone heads of Medusa each at the
base of a column, one upside down. The water in it now is only a few feet deep and you can
walk around on a walkway while classical music plays, enjoying the shadowy interior with its
subtle lighting. It‟s been restored several times and apparently the Ottomans didn‟t use it as
they liked flowing water. It was unknown to people from Western Europe until the 16th
century when a Dutch scholar ventured inside and mapped it, having heard from the locals
that they lowered buckets through their kitchen floors to get water.
Turkish flags are for sale everywhere and we find the ultimate one to take home, red
background, white crescent moon and star, and with a black and white photo of Mustafa
Kemal‟s head and shoulders superimposed over it.
On our way to the Grand Bazaar we have an interesting experience. We‟re walking
along and a man with shoeshine gear is walking in front of us. He drops one of his brushes,
and John taps him on the shoulder, tells him he‟s dropped it, then keeps walking. Very
quickly the shoeshine guy starts talking to me, then offers to clean John‟s shoes in
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appreciation, even though John protests. He says he‟ll just brush them but ends up cleaning
them properly.
We manage to let slip that we‟re off to the Grand Bazaar, and he says he has a friend
there who sells carpets and starts leading us along the street to show the way. When we don‟t
follow him he comes back to get us and starts to get aggressive when we won‟t go with him.
Then he wants to be paid for cleaning the shoes, and demands the equivalent of fifteen quid!
He says this as I‟m handing him about a pound, and he keeps saying “No, paper money!”
We‟re gobsmacked and keep saying “You can‟t be serious, it doesn‟t cost that much!” He
starts shoving John who says “I think we need to call the tourist police”, and that has the
desired effect. It‟s quite funny in hindsight but a bit unsettling at the time. We realise that
it‟s all a scam, as it‟s happened to us twice before, once when we were out with Murat, and
the guy then cleaned all our shoes for a reasonable price, and another time when I picked up
the brush then refused to have my shoes cleaned. By the way, our shoes are battered and long
overdue for a clean.
We‟ve put off going to the Grand Bazaar because it‟s quite stressful being in places
that are purely for tourists. The shopkeepers all seem to think that you‟re there to buy things,
and we‟re usually not interested. The Grand Bazaar was built in the 15th century and has four
thousand small shops, like a series of interlinking Victorian arcades, surely the prototype for
all shopping malls. It‟s very beautiful with arches everywhere disappearing into the distance
like an exercise in perspective. We only visit a small corner because it all gets too much
fending off the shopkeepers, but it‟s been fantastic to see another example of glorious
Turkish architecture: beautiful, functional, and with such exquisite style in the details.
That night there‟s drama in the car park. Incredibly, the two men who run the place
where we‟re parked can‟t drive. Not many people in Turkey have cars so it‟s not surprising,
but it would be really useful if these two could drive. The tiny section holds a dozen cars
squeezed in like sardines, and if someone wants to take their car out and there‟s another one
in front of it, then someone has to move the car onto the street to let them out. A man wants
his car which is behind another one, and the attendant comes to ask John if he will drive the
other one out.
John has to put on his shoes so will be a couple of minutes, but meanwhile the car
park guy flags down a lovely young Turkish woman (no headscarf, and wearing a mini skirt)
and her French boyfriend and asks them. She‟s keen, jumps into the big Audi and is just
backing over the kerb when John reckons she drops the clutch too fast because there‟s a big
bang and it completely loses power. She gets out and the men all scratch their heads. The
car has to be moved so she gets in again and steers it while the men push it backwards uphill
and into a spot against the curb. We‟re left wondering how the attendants will explain to the
owner of the Audi why his car won‟t go.
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Yun and Yeni
Next day we catch the ferry with Murat to Beyoglu on the northern side of the Golden
Horn. We go up the Galata Tower which was built in wood in the 6th century as a lighthouse.
In the 14th century the Genoese rebuilt it in stone, and in the 17th century someone flew from
it with home made wings four miles across the Bosphorous to Uskudar.
It‟s a sunny day and we get fantastic views all over the city. In Istanbul they have gas
central heating so there‟s no coal smoke. We‟re walking along a narrow street full of little
shops when two old men come towards us with plastic bags hanging off sticks slung over
their shoulders. They have very distinctive faces and look like they‟re straight out of the
pages of a fairy story. I ask John to take a picture of them, and they stop and ask us if we‟d
like to buy carpets. We say yes and they put down their bundles and take out little old beaten
up carpets that look like they‟ve come from someone‟s rubbish. They also want to sell us
bunches of chrysanthemums from their bags. We don‟t buy anything but they let us take
their picture.
We walk to Taksim Square where Murat tells us he has been to May Day
demonstrations. In 1977 forty people were killed when five hundred thousand demonstrators
turned up, shots were fired, the police used water hoses, and people got crushed. It‟s been a
very contentious issue, a battle between the unions and the government, and on occasions the
demonstrations have been held in a square in Kadikoy where there were four deaths in 1996.
Politics are never far below the surface in Turkey. Taksim Square is in an area of lovely old
buildings and old embassies from the days when Istanbul was the capital.
We look in a few antique shops which are completely out of our league then come
across a crowded little shop where the owner is sitting outside mending an old wool plying
machine. Hanging in the doorway is an antique woman‟s dress with a very full skirt and a
heavily beaded top. The shop is a goldmine of old Turkish things: little lightshades, clocks,
tiny clock faces, jewellery, swords, daggers, pictures, pottery, and at the back, rolled up
carpets and folded kilims.
The shopkeeper shows us his carpets, throwing them onto a growing pile on the floor,
explaining the origins of each one. Murat translates, and tells us that he is another Kurd.
Eventually there are about twenty five carpets on the floor making a pile nine inches high.
There are a couple that we would like to buy, but we don‟t, because frustratingly, the prices
he has quoted us are only if we buy all six carpets which we‟ve shown an interest in. If we
only take two, the price increases by fifty per cent.
We‟re in the shop for two hours and it‟s a wonderful experience, with Murat
translating and explaining. For the last hour a man stands quietly watching what‟s
happening. He turns out to be an Italian who is a regular customer, buying carpets at this
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shop and selling them all over Italy. The carpets and other woven things in this shop are the
most beautiful we‟ve seen. The shopkeeper has an eye for beautiful things and such intensity
when telling Murat the origin of each one.
Murat must be worn out with it all, but interestingly the Turkish words we‟ve picked
up, apart from “hello” and “thank you” are related to carpets. “Yun” is wool, “pamuk” is
cotton, “yeni” is new, “antika” is old, “yil” is year, and “ipek” is silk. Also the places where
the carpets are made are now becoming familiar: Konya, Van, Kayseri, Cappadocia, Iran,
Turkmenistan.
For me the textiles in this shop are even more wonderful than the carpets, and there‟s
one which raises the hairs on the back of my neck. It‟s a reversible piece of finely woven silk
and wool one metre square in an intricate striped pattern. It came from the old area of
Mesopotamia near the border with Iraq. He shows us how it is worn, folded into a triangle
then into a strip about eight inches wide, laid across the stomach and tied at the back. A
narrow pouch is formed at the front where money can be hidden, and a pouch at each side
could conceal a small gun. It would be very warm. The price? About three hundred pounds.
There‟s also a long strip of finely woven cream coloured wool about twenty inches wide and
fifteen feet long. You would wrap it around yourself to keep warm, or if you were injured.
He tells us that people still wear them in Iraq.
By this time it‟s getting late and we thank the shopkeeper for his patience and Murat
for his painstaking translations, and walk back across the Galata Bridge past all the
fishermen. We‟re amazed to see that they put all their tiny fish in containers full of water and
sell them to passers by. There are also people selling hooks, sinkers and little wooden
contraptions with bungees which they use to secure their fishing rods to the railings.
We queue up at the turnstiles waiting for the ferry back to Kadikoy where a television
is showing news of a big snowstorm in England with airports and roads closed. The three of
us go to a cheap cafe back in Kadikoy for a delicious dinner, all aubergine, peppers and
mince.
The next day is our last in Istanbul and our second to last in Turkey. After seven
weeks we‟ve put down roots and it‟s going to take a lot of momentum to get moving into
Greece. It‟s hard to contemplate leaving Murat and all the sights, smells, sounds and tastes of
Turkey behind. It feels like no other country can compare with what we‟ve experienced here.
To console ourselves we do one more circuit of the Kadikoy second hand shops and
buy a couple more old carpets. I find a wonderful old quilted jacket in a paisley pattern
trimmed with red velvet, very Turkish. I buy it from the old man in the shop where we saw
the tailor‟s sample pockets, and he remembers us and gives me the piece of fabric with the
pockets sewn into it as a gift. We meet Murat for cay and to sadly say goodbye, exchanging
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the many addresses that we have at our disposal. We‟re hoping to meet up with him in
London in a few months if his student visa application is approved.
With all the Turkish takeaways in the world it‟s easy to see that the Turks are experts
at fast food. People often eat on the job here, with trays of meals accompanied by salads and
crusty bread delivered around the town. There‟s every variation of kebab for sale, plus raw
mussels with lemon, barbecued corn on the cob, pottles of corn kernels with chilli, and
roasted chestnuts half peeled and piled in little pyramids. On the ferries there‟s a constant
parade of cay, juice, toasted sandwiches and sweet things for sale. Then there are simit, the
delicious chunky golden rings of bread laden with sesame seeds, stacked twelve inches high
on baskets balanced on vendors‟ heads. They‟re popular for breakfast on the move, and
we‟ve become hooked on them as a substantial snack.
It‟s a Sunday when we leave Istanbul, always the best time to exit a big city. We
farewell the car park guys who must be sad to lose their best customers. Amazingly it‟s
seventeen degrees in the back of the van when we quit Kadikoy, get on to the motorway then
skirt around the edge of Istanbul, crossing the Bosphorous on the second bridge. Everywhere
there are huge areas of high rise apartments, something we haven‟t been aware of in our time
here.
We follow the northern coast of the Sea of Marmara from Gumusyaka. When we fill
up with diesel we get a car wash from a guy with a high pressure hose, washing off the dirt of
so many countries. The sea is rough and we see ships anchored offshore. There are
buzzards, and after Tekirdag vines, ploughed fields, big bare oaks, fruit trees and rain, with
the motorway pretty empty. Then there‟s the most enormous factory farm, scattered houses,
a patchwork of cultivated fields, huge prunus in blossom, and an old brick factory pouring
out smoke. With the rain, the soil is a bright reddish brown, the grass and young crop
brilliant green, the trees dark, and the sky grey. Signs begin to appear saying Yunanistan,
Greece in Turkish.
When we arrive at the border, lorries are queued up for miles but we can use the car
lane. After the Turkish authorities clear us to exit at four separate checkpoints we‟re
processed by a sullen young Greek woman then wait in front of a barrier with the resident
beardie dog for an hour at the head of a queue of cars. It appears to be a change of shift.
Guards come and go, drink coffee, smoke cigarettes, and talk endlessly to each other. John
knows a couple in New Zealand who met and fell in love at this border crossing more than
thirty years ago, he a Greek guard, she a Kiwi backpacker. You can see how it could happen,
there would be enough time to go on a date together!
Eventually a friendly guy looks in the back of the van, asks us how many cartons of
cigarettes we‟ve got, how far we‟ve driven in Turkey, and says “Welcome, have a nice time”.
We‟re in Greece, and the sun is shining on us.
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Chapter 9 Greece
8 February – 9 March
Wine Syrup Cake
We know we‟ve left our beloved Turkey behind when we see an Orthodox church at
Feres, but the landscape is much the same, with ploughed fields, small oaks, and shepherds.
The border between the two countries has been elastic for centuries, and this area has been
Greece only since 1923.
Our first stop is Alexandropoulos where we discover that diesel is much cheaper than
in Turkey. At LIDL we buy cheap wine and beer, a big jar of delicious black olives, and bars
made of honey, sesame seeds, pistachios and almonds in various combinations. They also
have frozen roasts of New Zealand lamb. We park by the port and buy a Greek/English
dictionary. The Greek alphabet is going to be a challenge but at least we have a dictionary in
case of illness or problems with the van. We find the camping ground, and park right on the
beach, on concrete with a shade roof above us. There‟s only one other camper there. It‟s
very peaceful and hospitable with huge trees everywhere, a good place to gather our thoughts,
sort out the van, and gradually wean ourselves off Turkey.
I hand wash all the merino clothes and hang them under cover. John starts reading the
guidebook to Greece and watches the occasional fishing boat and swimmer. The woman in
the office is charming and lets me me plug the laptop in to their power and type at a desk for
a few hours. When I hear her speaking Greek it sounds beautiful.
We drive in to town and I manage to accidentally leave my card in the money
machine. I don‟t realise for another thirty minutes and rush back to the bank. When I show
them my passport they give me the card even though their protocol is to send it back to the
country of origin regardless. They clearly don‟t want to be difficult and I‟m so grateful .
Next day we check out of the camp and visit the Ethnographical Museum of Thrace in
a grand stone house built in 1899. The area known as Thrace used to extend as far as
Istanbul, a fertile land producing tobacco, grain, sesame, and olives for centuries. It‟s also
been very diverse ethnically with Turks, Armenians, Jews, Gypsies, Greeks and Pomaks
living in the area. At various times whole populations have been forced to relocate, for
example the exchange of Greeks and Turks in 1924. The museum is privately owned by a
woman who has collected costumes, musical instruments, cooking and farming equipment,
and photographs, and set it up with videos and written information. There‟s a shop, and also
a cafe which serves us delicious cake made with wine syrup, and no eggs or butter, from a
secret recipe which they tell us is hundreds of years old.
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The museum owner is giving a tour to some tourism students and the assistant takes
us to listen in, and translates for us. The owner is small, dark and elegant in a long black
dress with heavy and dramatic jewellery. She passionately explains Thrace‟s past
importance. The museum assistant is from Cyprus with excellent English and great
enthusiasm for the museum, the new world order of the E U, and the subsequent breakdown
in nationalism. The young people we‟ve met on this trip have been an inspiration.
There are large Orthodox churches everywhere and it‟s strange to hear bells chiming
again. After a night parked in a quiet corner of Alexandroupolos, we head west along the
coast and look south to the island of Samothraki which we last saw from Gallipoli. It‟s a
warm fifteen degrees. We take a wrong turning to the beach and drive through ancient olive
trees with trunks three feet thick. In Makri someone is selling potatoes and apples from the
back of a utility, with a loudspeaker, and pigs lie under the olive trees. We stop at Dikela to
make coffee and buy bread and the place is swarming with soldiers.
We‟re following the new highway called Via Egnatia which goes from Igoumenitsa
on the northwest coast of Greece to the Turkish border, running parallel to the old Roman
road of the same name for a short distance. It has a perfect camber and there‟s no traffic. We
pass through red soil, small oaks, maqis scrub, and pines. I look up a guide book to see how
to say New Zealand in Greek. It‟s Nea Zelandia, and apparently the stresses are very
important. There are buzzards and kestrels, cotton fields, a massive power station, a shepherd
with his flock, and a mosque. We‟re heading straight towards the Rodopi Mountains which
form the border with Bulgaria.
As we drive in to Komitini we see that the river is full of rubbish. Among the graffiti
is one in English “F... authority” with the stencilled image of a soldier with a rifle, similar to
the ones on the fences of military installations. We‟re looking for a Turkish market but don‟t
find much to interest us until we discover a brand new carpet shop three stories high with
fifty per cent off everything. Uh oh, just when John was going cold turkey.
It‟s a family business started by the charming proprietor‟s Turkish grandfather. The
carpets are all from Iran, Turkmenistan and Afghanistan. It‟s a slow day in spite of the
reductions, and we spend a happy hour or so enjoying the carpets. We buy an embroidered
kilim from Iran, a kilim from Afghanistan in brown tonings with almost Aztec patterns and a
few tiny Persian carpets. The proprietor gives us a ride with our carpets back to the van,
crossing himself every time we pass a cemetery. Back at the van it becomes even more “The
Princess and the Pea” as we lift the mattress to lay the new carpets on the thick pile.
On the drive south we see buzzards then egrets as we get into the wetlands. We stop
at Porto Lagos beside a river where the boats are weighed down with fancy outboard motors.
There‟s an electrical storm with heavy rain for hours and neither of us can sleep. We‟ve got
over excited with all the carpets, just when we were getting weaned off them.
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In the morning, birds are on the lake and diving in the river, and the buzzards are just
sitting. Fertile plains of olives and crops stretch to the snow covered mountains in the west.
There are always doves, and now we see stork nests on power poles, then rooks and a
peregrine. It looks like the people here are quite affluent as the houses are fancy. We drive
up a spectacular viaduct above a hillside of cypress, umbrella and ordinary pines. There‟s
lots of rosemary in flower beside the road and out to sea so many shades of blue.
On this immaculate new motorway there hasn‟t been a picnic area or petrol station for
a hundred and eighty miles so we‟re thrilled when we reach Veria. We park outside the
cemetery which has death notices stapled to the trunks of trees. It‟s time to do a stocktake of
the carpets, labelling and rolling them, and we end up sleeping on three only.
Next day we visit the Byzantine Museum in a beautifully restored and converted 19th
century flour mill. It‟s full of wonderful paintings of saints from as far back as the 15th
century, plus a couple of mosaic floors from the 5th century. We walk past the small 12th
century cathedral, since converted into a mosque, and now looking derelict. Over the road is
a hulk of a plane tree from which the Ottomans hung the archbishop in 1430. Boy racers are
at it all night around the town.
Tomb Raiders
We‟ve come to this area to visit Vergina, an archaeological treasure trove on the site
of the ancient Macedonian capital Aegae. It‟s possible to visit the site of the old city, but the
royal tombs from the 3rd to the 4th century BC are enough excitement for us. We visit the
Great Tumulus, an ancient man made burial mound approximately forty feet high and three
hundred feet in diameter. The builders used the broken gravestones of ordinary citizens
buried a century before, for fill, and broken clay pots and bronze items from the 7th to the 10th
century BC were scattered amongst it as well. These are on display in the museum, which is
completely under the hill.
We walk down the ramp, looking at treasures in glass cases, then lower down we
come to the grand entrances to the tombs of King Phillip II (Alexander the Great‟s father),
and the prince‟s tomb (Alexander the Great‟s son). There is also the tomb of an unnamed
woman who was part of the family.
“For the first time I felt a shiver run down my spine, as if an electric shock had passed
through me. If the dating ... these were the royal remains ... then ... had I held the bones of
Phillip in my hands? It was astounding, too much for my mind to take in.” These are the
words of Professor Andronicos, one of the archaeologists to discover the tombs in the late
1970s. We feel pretty excited too, down there underground, looking at the beautiful objects
from the tombs, then walking down to the entrance of each one.
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The mouth of Phillip‟s tomb is guarded by two pillars and a metal door, with a faded
mural of a hunting scene above. The woman‟s tomb had been plundered but the wall
paintings remain. One clearly shows the abduction of Persephone by Pluto in his chariot.
In this era when a wealthy person died they were cremated along with their chariots,
horses and other animals, weapons, wreaths, fruit and jars of perfume. Their bones were then
washed, wrapped in a purple and gold cloth (on display) and placed in a golden box. The
bowls and jugs used to wash the bones were sealed in the tomb, and they are displayed along
with each of the golden boxes which held the bones. The charred remains of fish and animal
bones, nails, weapon heads, bits of iron and bronze, an iron bridle, clay and fruit from the
funeral pyre are also on display.
The most awe inspiring objects are the finely worked bronze, silver and gold pieces.
There‟s a tiny silver bowl with a relief head of Dionysus in the bottom, an extremely delicate
and shiny golden garland of tiny oak leaves and acorns a foot in diameter, bronze shin guards
(some gilded), a fine golden wreath of myrtle, and a big silver strainer for decanting wine,
with a swan‟s head and neck forming a loop on each side. We feel extremely lucky to be
looking at these things, well over two thousand years old and in mint condition, and to be
standing near to where these ancient kings were buried. It‟s quite unreal.
When we head off again we see our first Greek police car after six days in the
country. Compared with Turkey there‟s hardly a flag to be seen. We drive on the edge of the
hills, looking down on countryside which is a patchwork of intensive agriculture. To the
north there are high snowy mountains on the border of what used to be called Macedonia.
There‟s limestone in the soil and in the little villages all the houses have hens. We‟re pleased
to see lots of vans identical to ours, always a good thing if we need spare parts.
As we pass Katerini heading towards big mountains a kestrel is hovering, and then at
Dion a peregrine is chasing another bird. People have tiny refrigerated stainless steel milk
vats in their front yards, about the size of a forty four gallon drum and with the name of the
dairy company written on the side. They park their tractors in the basements of the houses.
We see a shepherd with a flock of sheep and goats with big udders, a vast quarry, a
huge army camp, and then we‟re in Litohoro right by Mount Olympus. There‟s a spectacular
ravine right next to the town. Snow is falling like dandruff as I go into a shop to buy juice.
The guy is very friendly and shows me a map with all the ways to get up Mount Olympus by
car, before asking me to sign the visitors‟ book.
On our way back to the van we come across a wedding. Most people are dressed in
black and the bride is wearing a layered dress in off white with a white fur stole. She‟s
escorted from the car to the church by two men playing an accordion and a clarinet, followed
by the wedding guests.
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In Litohoro the houses are modern, one with a grapevine growing up the side for
three stories, then shading the rooftop deck. We park for the night beside an army camp in
the town.
Next day we drive up through the houses then walk for twenty minutes into the gorge.
Forest clings to the rock walls and a beautiful clear mountain stream runs along the bottom.
On the way down we see two large birds of prey circling high above us, and in town our first
Greek robin.
We take another route up the mountain in the van, past a monastery, and see a little
blue iris at the side of the road. The lower slopes are covered with forest: holm oak, oak, and
finally conifers. As we drive through the conifers fine snowflakes begin to fall. As we get
higher there are swathes of beech interspersed with pine. The snow is white and patchy on
the fallen beech leaves and the rocks are white marble. The locals are driving up through the
falling snow with gay abandon as we turn and head back down. On the way back we get a
great view along the coast.
In the morning the sky has cleared and we can see Mount Olympus with just a small
amount of cloud and fresh snow on the lower slopes. One of our tyres has gone down
overnight and a garage repairs it for us. The cloud is coming and going on the steep
mountain slopes. It‟s an amazing spot, between the sea and Greece‟s highest mountain, the
legendary home of the gods.
Fighter planes fly overhead as we drive through the spectacular Pinios River gorge.
Mount Ossa, a sharp volcanic peak, is between us and the sea. Larissa is totally covered in
smog, as we enter beautiful countryside with high hills, big escarpments, flocks of sheep, and
rough stock shelters. It‟s layered: rich fertile plains, shingle hills, then to the west, high
snowy mountains in the distance.
It‟s an area of huge quarries, and tiny roadside caravans called “kantina” selling food.
The edge of the road is strewn with cotton for miles, and the occasional dead badger. As we
get closer to Meteora there are dramatic high mesa like formations which John says are
volcanic plugs. Again it reminds us of all those Westerns we grew up on. It‟s a lovely sunny
day, and the crested larks are out enjoying it.
The Meteora (rocks in the air) are pinnacles sixty million years old, the highest at
eighteen hundred feet, formed in the Tertiary period, then moulded into their current shape by
wind, rain and extremes of temperature. Perched on these natural wonders are phenomena
created by humans: monasteries dating back as far as the 10th century. The difficult access
and cosy nooks and crannies in the soft stone made the area attractive to hermits.
Monasteries grew from these religious beginnings. The guidebook tells us that a German
rock climbing guide describes virtually all the routes here as advanced, even with the latest
gear.
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The monasteries are all several stories high and seem to grow out of the rock. We
spend a fascinating couple of hours driving and looking, but even though it‟s possible to walk
in and visit them, we decide not to. It‟s the most spectacular spot on a glorious day and just
being there is enough. On the flat ground there are goats and cows with bells and lots of well
fed cats. The only birds are crows though our Mediterranean wildlife book tells us that it‟s a
great place to see eagles and vultures.
We drive south to Karditsa and there‟s rubbish everywhere. To the west the scenery
is all layered mountains, dark blue at the front, and lighter and snow covered at the back.
Rice and cotton grow side by side. We park on the edge of Karditsa outside the hospital. I
cook three dinners: a double quantity of bolognaise sauce, plus sausage, courgette and apple
juice stew. I put the bolognaise sauce on the step inside the sliding door (the coldest spot) to
chill overnight. We discover that the tyre has partly gone down again.
Next morning it‟s minus two outside and the bolognaise sauce has frozen. The gas
stove struggles under the breakfast. Luckily there‟s enough air in the tyre to get us to the
garage just along the road. They pump it up and send us a few miles further along to a tyre
repair place. The guy there breaks the ice on his water bath, dunks the tyre to test it, and
inserts a plug in five minutes. It‟s a gloriously sunny day as we head south east towards
Lamia, with high snowy mountains to the north and west.
After observing that the housing seems excellent, we drive past an area like a shanty
town with small lean to houses and mud yards. Then there are three huge cotton mills. For
the last few days we‟ve been seeing lots of small power lines crisscrossing fields to pump
sheds for irrigation.
The Road to Delphi
We climb through a series of hairpin bends as police cars and a police bus go past.
After stopping for coffee we keep climbing through more snow and tight corners, with a
panorama of snowy mountains to the south and west, and a glimpse of the sea.
Taking a wrong turning off the motorway we end up on a mud road past rice fields,
then in a construction area where a massive EU funded roading project is underway. After
another wrong turning we‟re on the road to Athens, driving past the sea. We‟re trying to get
to Delphi.
We perform that driving manoeuvre that Kiwis love, the U turn, then we‟re on our
way south west past huge flocks of goats and wild plane trees. We pass beehives, and look
down over a spectacular valley of grass, scrub, cypresses and rough country, with mountains
behind. We stop at the Bralos British War Cemetery with about a hundred immaculately kept
WW1 graves. There are a few Russians as well and they all died between December 1918
and January 1919.
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At Gravia we go through spectacular forested snowy mountains with steep bluffs all
around us. The trees are dark green against the white of the snow. A vast open cast mine has
entrances dotted along the roadside for miles. The prunus is flowering then we‟re thrilled
when we realise that a large tree with pink blossom is an almond. Suddenly we‟re looking at
the sea, with the snow covered Peloponnese peninsula in the distance. There‟s blossom
everywhere, wild sage, and women out picking wild greens. At last we‟re in the hilltop town
of Delphi and we park on a cliff top looking over a valley of olives with spectacular Mount
Parnassos in the background.
Next morning we‟re up early to visit the ancient site of Delphi. From about 1200 BC
for over one thousand years people went there to consult the oracle - seek advice and find out
about the future. The advice given out was quite reliable, because the woman who acted as
the oracle was backed up by a bureaucracy of well informed advisers.
The site covers several acres on a steep hillside. It used to have thousands of statues
plus huge marble buildings, but its treasures were plundered for centuries. Now there are just
ruins and trees, towering cliffs above, and a beautiful wide valley full of olives below. It‟s a
very popular tourist spot, and we‟re visiting at the same time as a large group of French high
school students who look very cool, some smoking.
It‟s inspiring to be in this legendary place and to experience the atmosphere. There‟s
something about the setting and the history that make it very special. High up on the site is a
stadium with stone seating for seven thousand people. It was used for athletics and chariot
races. We explore the rest of the site with its marbles ruins, and visit the Castalian spring
along the road where people coming to consult the oracle used to wash, and the Sanctuary of
Athena, which was called the Marmaria from the Middle Ages, as people used to go there to
get marble for their building projects.
There are wild flowers, peregrines, rock nuthatches, robins, thrushes, and also several
resident cats and dogs basking in the sun.
We visit the splendid museum with its sculptures, friezes, pottery, fine gold jewellery,
and best of all “The Charioteer” in bronze, nearly six feet high, made in the fifth century BC.
His lips and eyelashes are copper, and his eyes are onyx. He stands erect, proud yet modest,
holding the reins in his hands, at the moment when he has brought his chariot and four horses
to pose in front of the crowd after his winning performance. It‟s hard to find superlatives to
describe such a work of art. It‟s unforgettable.
As we leave Delphi there are olives from the edge of the road to the horizon on one
side, and towering smooth rocky bluffs coloured grey and orange on the other. We
eventually arrive at the famous crossroads where in Sophocles‟ play “Oedipus Rex” (written
in the 5th century BC), Oedipus kills his father, not knowing who he is, thus setting in motion
a tragic chain of events.
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We‟re heading to the Hosios Loukas monastery, down a back road which takes us
past a glorious almond grove on a hillside. Some of the trees are twenty feet tall and all are
covered in beautiful pink blossom. There are bees galore. We stop and I make a salad of
avocado, sardines, pear, tomato, corn and beetroot for lunch. Some fighter planes fly over.
The locals who drive past all smile and wave, and one old guy stops, and says “Two
kilometres”.
The landscape reminds us of the Burren in the west of Ireland, with grey rock
providing a base for all sorts of vegetation.
The monastery sits on a hill overlooking a lovely valley. A handful of monks live
there and look after the old buildings which include two famous churches. The biggest and
best, the Catholicon, was built in 1040 with walls made of stone then layers of brick. The
windows consist of a circle with a six inch diameter, the circumference scalloped with eight
half circles. These quaint outlines form high windows that look exactly like pieces of pastry
left behind after being pressed out with a cookie cutter. Inside are beautiful mosaics, the best
one, high up in a corner, showing a naked Jesus being baptised in deep water, with a
marvellous 3D effect. It‟s another of those very memorable works of art that jumps out and
hits us. There are also the relics of someone wrapped in a black cape with an ancient hand
showing. In the crypt every surface is painted with Byzantine frescoes, many fading and
some strangely modern in style.
Then we‟re on the road to Athens, past a shepherd sitting cross legged among the
rocks with his flock of goats spread out behind him. We go back through Dhistomo with its
large and striking memorial to the two hundred and thirty two people shot by the Nazis here
in WW2. We stop for the night at the Schimitari motorway rest area which has a restaurant,
shower, large parking area, and a slow internet connection. We buy a map of Athens and
work out which way to drive in and where to park when we get there.
God’s Letterboxes
After a peaceful night parked with the lorries we head to Athens on the motorway,
relieved that there‟s not much traffic. As we exit down an off ramp we notice that the
barriers have a bit of damage. It must be from cars crashing into them - a bit disconcerting.
Then on the overbridge facing south we see a big rocky hill in the distance. It‟s the
Akropolis!
The gum trees are huge, orange trees line the streets, and lots of the cars whizzing past
us have dents and scrapes along the sides. After a nightmare thirty minutes when we get lost,
go down a one way street the wrong way, and creep through impossibly narrow gaps, we end
up at the Olympic Stadium which has a huge free car park.
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We make coffee and devour the last piece of fruit cake (baked in Surrey a year ago)
then collapse in the back. Our homemade supplies have a calming effect but they‟re
dwindling now after six months on the road. Happily we still have an unopened jar of Seville
orange marmalade and one of mostarda di Venezia (quince chutney).
Everywhere we‟ve been in Greece we‟ve seen little glass fronted roadside shrines
containing an odd assortment of objects: half a bottle of Coke, food, lit candles, plates,
photos, mementos. We‟ve started calling them God‟s letterboxes.
We discover that our new car park is only one metro stop from a huge new mall full
of restaurants, upmarket shops, internet cafes and movie theatres showing movies in English.
The car park is mainly empty and it‟s used by driving instructors teaching people to drive
cars, lorries and buses. It‟s very warm and clear and it doesn‟t get dark till after six so we‟re
happy. I‟ve nearly finished “Birds Without Wings” Louis de Bernieres‟ enormous and
wonderful novel on Turkey, Greece, Gallipoli and Mustafa Kemal.
We go to see the film “Doubt” and find it simultaneously relaxing and stimulating to
have a film to focus on. It‟s wonderful to hear English spoken after over six months in
Europe, and it gets us out of our self absorbed world.
When we eventually venture into Athens we walk around staring at things trying to
get our bearings, then ride on the tourist Noddy Train for an hour. When we get back to the
van crowds of people are arriving for a footy game at the stadium. We have a peaceful night
apart from the boy racers doing wheelies.
Next day it‟s into town again and we stumble upon a fascinating big flea market with
people who look Turkish or Gypsy, with the women‟s head scarves tied in a distinctive way.
We see some very interesting old kilims and also a guy selling silk embroidered suzanis and
little round silk embroidered men‟s hats, all from Turkmenistan. Among the fascinating junk
is a Nana Mouskouri record!
We now feel ready to take on the Akropolis, a huge rock sticking up in the middle of
Athens, a couple of football fields in size, and home to stray dogs dozing in the sun. On it are
massive ruins of various ancient marble buildings, now being restored to undo the damage
done by previous restorations. An example of this is the little pieces of metal which hold the
slabs of marble together, which will in future be made of titanium. We‟re fascinated to see
the original home of the marble relief frieze we‟ve seen at the British Museum (known as the
Elgin Marbles), taken by the British ambassador in Constantinople Lord Elgin in the early
19th century, and bought by Britain in 1816.
That night the boy racers in the car park start early and they‟re competing with the
learner drivers. We presume that the men with remote control cars have been squeezed out
and wonder where the police are. The Greek police are the most arrogant and aggressive
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we‟ve ever seen. Some wear leather jackets, they smoke, wear dark glasses, and always seem
to be focused inwards towards each other, like a small elite group. They seem to show
contempt for everyone. We begin to understand the student riots.
Next day there‟s fresh snow on the hills as we catch the metro to Marousi a very
pleasant suburb close by, in search of a dentist, because I‟ve broken another filling. A
chemist gives us the business card of one nearby and we discover that dentists here can‟t
afford receptionists or nurses. The seventy six year old father of the dentist welcomes us to
the surgery and says his son will be there in an hour. He grinds off a bit of my tooth and lays
out the instruments, explaining that he‟s a retired dentist.
Then we sit in the waiting room and chat. He speaks German and not English, but
this doesn‟t stop us from covering a lot of ground. He was a little boy living near Mount
Olympus during WW2, and his father was a shepherd with five hundred sheep. He
remembers the kindness of the Kiwi soldiers who in 1940/41 fed the hungry children in his
village with sandwiches of white bread and jam. A New Zealand officer who was a dentist
gave his pliers to the village when he left.
He‟s keen on ancient history so we talk about some of the sites we‟ve visited: Troy,
Bergama, Ephesus, Vergina and Mycenae. He tells us that he loves tourism. In the early
1960s he trained as a dentist in Hamburg and knows about the Beatles being there. His wife
is German. It‟s a wonderful conversation, the nicest encounter we have with a Greek person.
The son arrives and does a great job on my tooth, telling me about training as a dentist
in Bucharest just after the end of Communism. I get a haircut from a young woman who
speaks English with an accent which sounds like Birmingham to me. She grew up on Rhodes
and spent a lot of time with Brit tourists, then went to Staffordshire for four years and trained
as a hairdresser.
When we emerge from the metro at our local mall it‟s sleeting. We go to the film
“Frost/Nixon” and have a meal, amazed at the number of people in the mall at night. People
have even brought their babies and toddlers along, giving them an early lesson in consuming.
Next morning we catch a crowded commuter train into town. As usual the cleaner at
the station has the place so immaculate that I wonder if I should tell her about the dead bee on
the staircase. In town we track down a cheap laundry in the student area and drop off two
loads of dirty washing. Then we head to the National Archaeological Museum which was
established about 1890, the same time as the one in Istanbul. It has the most enormous
collection of unbelievable artefacts.
There are Neolithic pottery and tools, and lots of objects from Schliemann‟s
excavations at Mycenae (14th and 15th century BC): fine gold funeral masks (including the socalled “Mask of Agamemnon”), fabulous jewellery, and stone seals. There‟s really nothing
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new under the sun when it comes to jewellery. We see pieces in gold and bone set with
amethyst and amber that could be found in a contemporary jeweller‟s studio. We love the
hearth and bath tub made of pottery, and the Cycladic figurines (the first known human
representations in marble) which also have a modern look. Among the endless sculptures our
favourite is the Little Jockey of Artemission, a full size galloping horse in bronze with a tiny
boy on its back. It was found in a shipwreck.
Amazingly there are beautiful ancient frescoes from the island of Santorini, plus cruel
bits, bridles, and metal parts from a chariot. As usual we‟re thrilled to see so many perfect
and ingenious ancient objects. I particularly like the gallant horses and bulls in the friezes
and sculptures, and a lovely octopus on a pot.
Greek children from about four to eighteen are being shown around, and we watch
some little ones who are in rapt wonder as their enthusiastic teacher holds forth in front of a
marble sculpture of a naked woman with an angel on her shoulder being grabbed by a satyr.
I‟d love to hear her explanation.
We visit the Bazaar area with its huge meat and seafood market. There‟s absolutely
nothing left to the imagination when it comes to animal anatomy there. Likewise the fish
section is mind blowing with huge unrecognisable fish heads, squid, octopus, and mysterious
large white fillets with a little piece of backbone or cartilage attached. We have lunch there
in a traditional old restaurant full of older men all eating alone. John has stifado which is
meat and shallots slow cooked, absolutely delicious, and I have tiny macaroni with tomato
and lamb shank. I manage to buy the same macaroni later and it‟s great to add to a stew.
We pick up our washing and head back to the van exhausted. Our car park is on a
busy road and at the lights there‟s often a young black man selling flowers to people in their
cars. What a long hard day he‟s had but he still smiles.
Next day we leave Athens with its dented cars, aggressive drivers, and bus drivers
with their mobile phones glued to their ears. We head towards Corinth and from the
motorway we can see the old port of Piraeus with ships anchored. We pass the ever present
gum trees, ship building, beautiful bays, a mussel farm, fishermen in dinghies, and stalls
selling shellfish by the roadside. Greeks must eat a lot of fish.
We‟re stopped by a cop with a cigarette in his hand. He wants to see John‟s licence.
He glances at it, hands it back and walks away. John says, “Is that it? Can I go?” and he half
heartedly says yes, then three of them leap into the police car laughing and race off
somewhere.
We‟re heading southwest towards the Peloponnese along a spectacular rocky coastline
with beautiful little beaches. The water is transparent turquoise close to the shore then further
out the blue of the sea is ruffled by wind and there are layers of blue islands. We stop at the
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Corinth Canal which was built shortly after the Suez Canal in the early 1890s, after a false
start by the Roman Emperor Nero in the 1st century AD, using slave Jewish labour from
Jerusalem. It‟s in a very strategic location, a narrow neck of land that connects the
Peloponnese to the mainland.
John buys a corn dolly off an old Gypsy lady then a couple of young Gypsy women
with children ask us for money. We give them some cash plus give the children a ball and a
bar of chocolate. John also gives the little boy (who has deformed hands) a small radio that
we don‟t need, and the mother immediately takes it off him. We wonder if he ever heard it
play.
The canal is carved in rock, and it‟s a spectacular sight: nearly four miles long, about
seventy feet wide, and the sides two hundred feet deep. It‟s right beside the old town of
Isthmia on a narrow neck of land. This must be the origin of the word isthmus. Some days
we learn so much that the trip seems like an interminable school outing!
Thyme Out Of Mind
After the Corinth Canal we head south round the coast, through lemon orchards,
towards the ancient theatre of Epidauros. It‟s very stony with steep hills forested in pine,
olives, and almond in blossom. We see a rough corrugated iron structure with smoke coming
from the chimney and wonder if there are sheep inside. There‟s snow on the mountains
ahead, then goats under olives and what look like fish farms in circular enclosures in a bay.
It‟s a beautiful sunny day and we stop on a cliff top to look at the view.
We‟re pleased to be in Greece in the winter when there are very few tourists. We
have Epidauros almost to ourselves, the better to enjoy the theatre‟s magical atmosphere and
perfect acoustics. For five hundred years the whole complex was an important sanctuary,
honouring Asklepios the god of healing. The theatre was built in the 4th century, amazingly
only rediscovered in the 19th century, and required little restoration. It has fourteen thousand
wide and roomy stone seats, the ones for the wealthy highlighted in a reddish stone. If you
stand in the centre of the beaten earth stage and speak, your voice echoes back to you from
several directions. In the summer the plays of Classical Greek playwrights like Sophocles are
staged here.
We drive to Nafplio through olive trees in a carpet of wild flowers and discover that
it‟s a charming town of beautiful old Venetian buildings. The many restaurants, hotels and
apartments are virtually empty now, so we can park anywhere along the waterfront. Octopus
tentacles hang drying in the sun.
It‟s the final weekend of the big pre Lent festival (the Orthodox church has Easter at a
different time from us) so children are out in fancy dress, and at night the adults are dressed
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up as well. There are events in the old square with lots of confetti, streamers and excited
people.
Young Gypsy children are weaving in and out of tables where families in fancy dress
are drinking hot chocolate. It provides a sad contrast. The Gypsies have parked their vans
and cars further down the wharf, with washing hanging on a fence, and a fire burning one
night. We give money to some of the women and children and a ball to a little boy.
We have eleven days in the Peloponnese before we sail from Patra to Bari. We start
to relax into it, but not before I have a cooking disaster. I‟m making a mince stew, saving gas
by not lighting the gas lamp, and I manage to knock the large heavy pot off the cooker so half
the stew goes down the side door. It has no wooden lining so some of it ends up inside the
door. Oh dear.
We have a quiet day catching up with people on skype and getting the oil changed in
the van. We do our emails and hear from Murat that he has his student visa and is off to
London so we‟ll see him when we get back there, very exciting. We decide to rest here for a
couple of days. The sun goes down with flashes of gold.
We buy the British papers and we‟re shocked to hear that there is now a BNP
representative on the Sevenoaks Council. Then in a Greek paper we discover that during the
past week various terrorist attacks in Athens have failed or been averted, one attack on a
bank, and one on a left wing group. Also two notorious criminals escaped from prison by
helicopter, using exactly the same modus operandi as in a previous escape from the same
place. The incompetence and corruption of the prison service are blamed. We‟re even more
relieved to be out of Athens.
Various camper vans arrive and take up residence in the car park. The weather is
glorious and the glassy sea stretches to snowy mountains in the distance. We‟re loving the
opportunity to relax. Then we have the pleasure of meeting Daniela. She‟s Italian, from the
Dolomites, retired, and travelling alone in a comfortable old camper. She spends every
winter away from home, usually in Croatia, and she‟s been in the Peloponnese for three
months, arriving by ferry from Ancona. She speaks perfect English, having lived in England.
Someone has parked too close to her door and she can‟t get in to her camper. She asks for
our help and John manages to squeeze in the side door and let off the handbrake so the
camper rolls forward and she can open the door. (“Bravo John, bravo!”) She invites us in for
a grappa. It‟s amazing to be inside a real camper and to sit at a table. Daniela has
documented her trip well and she has lots of books and maps. We have so much to talk
about.
Next morning we have a coffee with her, served in tiny elegant disposable cups, and I
give her “Birds Without Wings” because she wants to travel to Turkey next winter. She
convinces us that we should drive north via the Dolomites on our homeward journey and
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gives us a book on the area in Italian, plus a fabulous detailed map of the Mani Peninsula.
She‟s worried because she can smell gas in the camper so John checks it out for her and
tightens the valve. We‟re sorry to say goodbye, but we‟ve got lots to see, and decide to head
off inland to have a look at Mycenae.
The route from Nafplio to Mycenae is through citrus orchards with snowy mountains
in the background. It‟s spring at last and there are red anemones everywhere. As we arrive at
Mycenae two big birds of prey are circling. The site is alive with almond blossom, dark blue
grape hyacinths, daisies, huge cacti, and birds going crazy. A rock nuthatch sitting on a stone
wall sings so loudly that everyone has to stop and look. I hear a woodpecker.
Mycenae is like a classic New Zealand Maori pa site. It‟s a fortified palace with
views in all directions including straight down to the sea at Nafplio. This is where
Agamemnon, who led the Greeks in the war against Troy, had his kingdom. We‟ve seen the
treasures found in the tombs here in the National Archaeological Museum in Athens.
We walk through the Lion Gate to enter the hilltop citadel. Its massive stone walls
and lintel are an impressive example of engineering in 1550 BC. For us the most spectacular
construction is a vast circular underground tomb which you enter via a ramp and through an
arched doorway. It‟s lined with stone and consists of a circular interior with a domed ceiling.
My footsteps echo as they crunch on the pebble covered floor. There‟s an even bigger one of
these called the Treasury of Atreus. The lintel over the doorway is formed by two huge slabs
of stone. One is thirty feet long and estimated to weigh a hundred and eighteen tons. The
Rough Guide describes it as “a beehive-like structure built without the use of mortar”.
We set off for Argos down an avenue of old white trunked gum trees then head south
around the spectacular coast road. We pass Astros and see a mule, then rivers with no water,
one with just little black oily puddles and a terrible smell. An old man is crossing the road
with a donkey carrying a hay bale on each side. The valleys are fertile and the hills are
covered with grey and orange rocks and scrub. Grey slabs of rock extend into the sea like
fingers.
We end up near Paralia Tyrou parked beside the road on a cliff top looking out to sea.
It‟s peaceful and warm, and we sit outside eating our dinner of mashed potato, fried eggs,
spinach, mushrooms and onions. We can hear geese and a blackbird, and a little creature
keeps buzzing past us in the air. We realise it must be a bat and consult the wildlife book.
It‟s probably a pipistrelle with a body the size of a mouse, chasing flying insects.
We settle down for the night‟s reading. For me it‟s“Orhan Kemal in Jail with Nazim
Hikmet” by Bengisu Rona, about two Turkish writers who were political prisoners in the late
1930s/early 1940s, sharing a prison cell in Bursa for three years. It‟s fascinating.
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Next morning it‟s perfectly still. A man is rowing around towing a line from his
dinghy. Someone else is snorkelling in the bay. A guy goes past on a motorbike carrying a
wetsuit and a spear gun. Driving up from the village and the beach we look up to high bluffs
a mile ahead, forested on the lower slopes. We‟re on our way to the Mani, a rugged and
remote area with a history of feuding and bloodshed.
We enter an area where there are steep hillsides of olives, a hundred and eighty
degrees of sea, holm oaks, cypresses, almonds, red anemones and a peregrine. Then we pass
an old lady riding a donkey side saddle with empty crates tied on the other side. We pull over
above Sambatiki and look down at the dark turquoise water enclosed by a breakwater
sheltering a dozen little fishing boats. A rooster crows and a dog barks. It‟s so warm I‟m
wearing a summer dress.
Further on the gorse is in flower and we see a valley of tunnel houses, orchards and
market gardens right down to the sea. We head inland to Leonidio through spectacular
orange bluffs. Leonidio is all white walls, terracotta tile roofs and olives, and John manages
to squeeze the van through the tightest winding streets for what seems like at least a mile.
He‟s sweating!
As we head up a narrowing valley of olives along a dry riverbed we get a text telling
us that our old dog Bianca has died back in New Zealand. It‟s very sad news. We console
ourselves with the thought that she was very happy in her new life on a huge farm with other
dogs and people who loved her.
We stop for coffee and see hundreds of goats running down the hillside followed by a
goatherd who uses a few well aimed stones and his voice to keep the goats on track. A
donkey and a white pony are having a roll in the riverbed and we see two donkeys with pack
saddles and a dog tied up in the shade beside the road.
Stone shelters, caves and stock enclosures run up the hillside above a dry riverbed.
The bees are out and a hundred blue beehives zigzag across a hill. Old stone bridges and
huge nettles catch our eye, and on the other side of the river a cleared flat dirt area with feed
troughs. The predominant colours are green, grey, orange and pink. An old monastery
perches high on a ledge. Another branch of the river comes into view flowing with beautiful
clear water. We wonder if we could climb down and have a swim. Stopping to read an
information board we learn about the local birds: short toed eagle, peregrine, Bonnelli‟s
eagle, kestrel, tawny owl, eagle owl and the blue rock thrush. The locals who drive past all
wave to us. We pick some wild thyme with thick leaves.
Bats on the Beach
As we continue on our journey we see a farmyard on three levels. At the top is a big
cave with a steep frontage where there are two baby kids, lower down is a little house and a
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flat area with trees and someone standing outside, and on the bottom level is a stone shed.
Each level is fifty yards apart. We stop the van to take photos of the whole set up and hear
the distant clang of goat bells, then pass the turn off to the monastery. It‟s been there since
the Middle Ages and now has only three nuns in residence.
We climb steadily through broom and small conifers dotted with sheep shelters and
caves. At Kosmas village it‟s very steep and the houses have roofs made out of thick pieces
of stone. There‟s a beautiful village square with huge plane trees, their trunks covered in
moss. It‟s a spectacular place in the melting snow, but a nightmarish labyrinth to drive
through. It‟s Lent Monday and someone is flying a kite, the local custom at this time.
We look across to snow clad Mount Parnonas which is six thousand feet high, then
down through snow, rocks and fir trees. It‟s hot and sunny so fortunately the snow on the
road is soft.
We reach the town of Gythio where there‟s been a rubbish strike and garbage is piled
up beside the road. Every available bit of parking space on the streets and the wharf is full,
because people are eating out in the restaurants, celebrating the holiday. We eventually get
everything we need at a couple of shops: juice, wine, beer, bread and diesel. The bread is a
special flat rock hard kind that they bake only on this day, a real tooth breaker.
We stop at Mavrovouni Beach, and park for the night beside a line of little gums on
the edge of the sand. It‟s mid afternoon and the children are out flying kites. People come
and go, and eventually we have the place to ourselves. There are no houses, just a few empty
holiday apartments. It‟s warm and absolutely quiet apart from the lapping of the water. At
dusk we see two bats catching insects.
Next morning the sun‟s shining when we open the side door. The sea is calm and a
commercial fishing boat with three men on board anchors offshore where they put out a line
and catch a fish. We eat breakfast on the beach, rock hard toast made from the special bread.
Another boat ties up alongside the first one and another fish is caught.
From Gythio to Skoutari it‟s all olives, olive oil factories and stone walls. They‟re
burning olive prunings, and some of the hillsides look like they‟ve had fires that have spread
out of control in the past. It‟s all under a mackerel sky.
At Kotronas we arrive at the sea again, deep turquoise by the shore and dark blue
further out. For the first time, spread across the steep hills we see derelict stone houses with
the characteristic fortified towers of the Mani. The people here fortified their houses in this
way because they were constantly feuding with each other.
Near Koarnas we see three big birds of prey, one whistling and one showing flashes
of silver as it flips around. One lands on a bush and another one disappears over a hill. I
think the one with the silvery underbelly is a Bonnelli‟s eagle.
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Stone walls criss cross the hills up to about two thousand feet, and small terraces have
been created for olives. We get a sense of the ingenuity and tenacity of the people who have
farmed this incredibly inhospitable country for hundreds of years.
New houses have been designed to look like the old ones. On the top they have a
mock tower with a rough jagged corner. They are all in stone with terracotta tile roofs,
blending in perfectly with the surrounding rocks and vegetation. They have tiny windows,
presumably to keep out the sun, and no exterior ornamentation or gardens. The word grim
springs to mind. Every so often we get an acrid whiff of stock kept indoors. A group of
older tower houses rises straight out of the rocks on a precipitous hill.
We stop to take photos and hear constant loud birdsong. A six inch lizard runs across
the road into the wild fennel.
As we climb away from the coast the hillsides are all stone. At Lagia the village
clocks have stopped. The towers on the houses look like real battlements on a castle. The
cars are all late models.
When we come to a turn in the road which takes us off our southern path, due west,
we realise that this is the furthest south we will go on the entire trip, and we will now be
wending our way back north and west. We stop at the top of the ridge in a sunny and windy
spot for lunch, and spot two ships out at sea. There are lots of abandoned stock shelters with
no roofs. The stone walls have been built with impressive precision.
After the village of Tsikalia we head steeply down to the west coast where small gum
and pine trees are dotted beside the road. Lovely euphorbias grow wild here. The Mani
seems to be racing by very fast. Daniela‟s map is one and a quarter inches to the mile, and
it‟s inscribed with her comments: “Bellisimo”, “No con camper!”, “Fontana in piazza”,
“Difficolta”.
On the west of the peninsula there are stretches of flat country and tower houses
everywhere, and as we head north, big snowy mountains in the distance. Olives stretch for
miles, with grass and bright wild flowers and geraniums forming a carpet underneath.
At Areopoli where we turn off to Kalamata there‟s a huge oak tree. Then we climb
out of Tsipa and look across to the walls of Kelefa Castle, built by the Turks in 1670.
According to the guidebook this area was the most notorious for piracy and trading in slaves
from the 16th to the 18th centuries. The people here sold Turks to Venetians, Venetians to
Turks, and the women of their Mani enemies to both.
The olives here are like bonsai, small and rigorously cut back, enclosed in solid stone
walls. John takes a photo of a bull in the olives, and cypresses spiking the skyline.
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My mind is on Patrick Leigh Fermor, the most intelligent of travel writers, who has
written a book on the Mani, and lives here somewhere in a house he built with his wife Joan.
I look for their house in vain.
Beware Greeks
We eventually drive down the hill to the coast and the town of Stoupa where Daniela
has told us there are a lot of ex pat Brits. It‟s a nightmare maze of narrow streets with
nowhere to park so we back track to Aghio Nikolaos along the coast. We find a beach with
grass and trees and a couple of campers parked on the road. We get out of the van and stand
on the beach, enjoying the peace and beauty of the place after the long and arduous drive.
Suddenly a man comes up to John and starts yelling at him in Greek that we can‟t park there.
In his diatribe he also mentions the police. A couple with a young child join in and the
woman tells us in English not to take any notice and of course we can park there. Then she
really gets stuck into the guy. She tells us it‟s ridiculous and we (the Greeks) are not like
this! We‟re impressed with how she takes him on as he‟s a nasty aggressive type, and we
quickly decide that it would be better to leave. We say that we‟ll move the van onto the road
but decide to drive off. A huge black bee with purple wings has got inside the van. It‟s
bigger than a bumblebee, a carpenter bee.
We drive back into the village and park by the small manmade harbour. We watch a
little boat laden with nets, and with hardly any freeboard, heading out to sea. In one of the
cafes a group of people with Lancashire accents sits outside in the sun. The shop has English
papers. Martins are flying back and forth to their mud nests under the eaves of an old
building.
About seven o‟clock we hear a loudspeaker with a woman‟s voice and John gets out
of the van to have a look. A small lorry has pulled up next to us in the port car park, followed
by two utilities with canopies on the back. All have rows of battery hens in cages inside. We
think they must be for sale as we‟ve seen lots of people driving around selling things off the
backs of lorries like this. These people look like Gypsies.
There‟s a young child asleep in the cab of the lorry, another one awake, and an older
woman. A young woman gets out of one of the vehicles and opens a door between the cab
and the hens, gets things out from a locker by the wheels, then climbs in the back where she
starts cooking a meal on a gas ring. We‟re intrigued. The older woman does some washing
in a bowl on the ground. The three men stand around and talk, then feed the hens. They‟re
here for the night like us.
Around midnight we look out and realise that the utilities have moved and our exit is
blocked. We always like to have a clear exit at night. John gets out and taps on the window
where the guy is sleeping in the cab, and asks him to move, which he does. We park further
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along. Much later on people emerge from a bar nearby and direct a tirade of abuse at the hen
vendors‟ vehicles.
In the morning the hen people are still asleep when we move round the bay to have
breakfast and sort out the van. I go down to the rock pools and discover they are full of kina
(sea eggs – spiky sea urchins). We see the overloaded boat from last night returning. It‟s
been gone for fourteen hours. The sea is perfectly calm and the waterfront is lined with
tamarisk trees.
We go to the post office for stamps. In front of us in the queue is an ex pat British
couple who the post office staff treat as rudely as they treat us. They‟ve already bought their
copy of the Daily Mail and they sit with it at a cafe drinking coffee. They look decidedly
miserable. We speculate on what it must be like living here in the current situation. The
interest rate back in the UK is virtually zero, so no income off your investments, and the
political situation in Greece is unstable. You‟ve left the UK because of immigration (among
other factors) and you end up a disliked immigrant in another country. Depressing.
Apparently there are eleven million people in Greece and seventeen million tourists
visit here every year. That‟s the largest ratio of tourists to local people in the world. No
wonder the locals seem a bit jaded when they interact with us.
On the way to Kalamata we see huge cabbage trees and a dark bird of prey. As we
drive round the rocky coast there are some beautiful houses several stories high. We arrive in
Kardamyli a lovely little town with huge gum trees in the square. Mt Taygetos at eight
thousand feet towers above us. Two anchor shaped birds of prey are easily recognisable peregrines. There are ancient olives and red anemones galore plus mauve, white and yellow
wild flowers. The beautiful village of Prosolio sits on a hill and there are lambs with black
spots, and kids as well.
Just before Kalamata we come upon a glorious bay with white sand and palm trees.
As we drive along the waterfront the sea and sky merge. Someone is out snorkelling in the
turquoise water. We have a quick swim and it‟s delicious. A fishing boat comes to within
fifty metres of the shore and hauls in a net.
On the outskirts of Kalamata we see a Gypsy camp under plastic, another one by the
Pamisos River, then more permanent looking dwellings which have plastic walls and roofs,
with glass windows. They are beside olive farms and we think they must be where the
workers live. A fighter plane flies overhead. We stop for lunch, watch some marsh harriers
and pied wagtails, and John feeds a resident stray dog. Oranges, potatoes, lemons and
strawberries are for sale at the roadside. I see two big birds of prey with square wings, a
large diamond shaped tail, and some white feathers. They are some kind of eagle, possibly
Bonnelli‟s.
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Irises are out everywhere. An old man is working among low vines, an old lady
stokes a bonfire, and a donkey waits for them in the wild flowers. At Soulinario a couple are
going to town on a large rotary hoe with a trailer. We later see more of them parked in town.
At last we arrive at historic Pylos which has a fabulous natural harbour. It was the
scene of important battles in the Peloponnesian War, then again in the Greek fight for
independence from the Ottomans in 1827. The town square is shaded by an enormous one
hundred year old plane tree. We park on the wharf and notice that there are a couple of other
campers. One of them is driven by a taxi driver from Salford in Manchester who tells us he‟s
wintering over mainly on his own. His wife flies back and forth, not wanting to spend too
long away from the grandchildren. He invites us into his immaculate camper for a beer.
He‟s been to lots of places and has a few stories to tell. He and his wife went to Istanbul and
after six hours driving round they still couldn‟t find the camping ground. Eventually they
went to the police who escorted them there with lights flashing. He‟s a big LIDL
supermarket fan as well, and has a chain across his front seat at night like us.
John loves it parked on the wharf and drools over all the boats from tiny dinghies to
large yachts.
When we leave next day it must be raining mud because the van and all the cars are
covered in a beige film. It‟s a mystery to us where it‟s come from. We visit Nestor‟s palace
which was excavated using the latest techniques so it hasn‟t been ransacked. A roof has been
built over the site where there were previously olive trees. The walls are all clearly visible
and large storage jars are embedded in the dirt. The best thing is a gorgeous terracotta
bathtub which links up perfectly with the scene from “The Odyssey” where Odysseus‟ son
Telemachus visits Nestor to ask if he has any news of his father, and Nestor‟s daughter gives
him a bath. There‟s also a small tomb like the ones at Mycenae. I‟m very happy to have seen
this place as Homer‟s stories have really got into my head.
We drive into Hora and a man is standing in the road, having just hosed down his car.
We indicate to him to wash our van as well which he does, but he won‟t accept any payment.
In Hora we visit the museum and see fabulous objects from Nestor‟s palace and other sites in
the area, a lot of it unbroken pottery including a big pot with a fabulous octopus decoration.
Octopuses dominate the fish markets and supermarket freezers even now.
We set off through rolling countryside and the van gets covered in brown rain again.
At Gargaliana olive trees grow on a flat plain of red soil, all irrigated, right to the sea. At
Kyparissia we have lunch in the LIDL car park in a thunderstorm.
The turn off to Olympia takes us inland through pines and cypresses. In this part of
the Peloponnese the soil must be better because the vegetation is lush. We park for the night
in a little car park in the middle of the town. I start reading “Between the Woods and the
Water”, the next stage of Patrick Leigh Fermor‟s walk to Istanbul.
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The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea
Two big rivers meet at the town of Olympia, and we can see the blackened evidence
of extensive bush fires. The town is small and full of souvenir shops, and like all the tourist
places we visit, the capacity in terms of restaurants and accommodation is huge. It‟s virtually
empty now.
The site of Ancient Olympia is very large. It was the Sanctuary of Zeus and now
consists of the remnants of temples, places of accommodation and other large constructions
plus areas where statues were displayed. We wander through low walls showing the outlines
of buildings and the stumps of columns. The stadium, which was only uncovered in the
1940s, is a very small part of the whole complex.
The site is covered in trees and we‟re interested to see unpruned olives which have
grown to a height of thirty feet. Old plum trees are blossoming among silver poplars, oaks,
pines, daisies, irises, and red and purple anemones. Blackbirds, sparrows, chaffinches and a
black redstart live here as well. The atmosphere is electric for us as we walk on ancient slabs
of marble which were laid several centuries before Christ.
The stadium is the best part. It‟s the oldest athletic race track in the world, about two
hundred and ten yards long, with the original start and finish line still there plus the judges‟
area. The remains of the tunnel where the athletes entered the stadium is still standing, just
an archway now. Beside the track is a small hill where the women and slaves would sit and
watch. We‟re quite overcome with emotion to be here. In Greece we find the origins of so
much of Western society.
As if that‟s not enough, the museum has an incredible collection of sculpture in
bronze, clay and marble, plus bronze cauldrons and tripods (those staples of “The Iliad”). It
also has the largest collection of ancient weaponry in the world including a dozen bronze
helmets, shields, shin guards, and the helmet worn by the Athenian general when they
defeated the Persians at the Battle of Marathon in 490 BC. There‟s an endearing display of
tiny bronze animals laid out like a child‟s farm set, and a huge statue of Nike the ancient
Greek goddess of victory. Everything at the museum is from the Olympia site and burial
grounds nearby.
High as kites we get on the road again, unsure where we‟ll be spending the night. The
countryside always has a calming effect and the driving on the Peloponnese has been
peaceful after the mad drivers of Athens. On the outskirts of Pyrgos we see a herd of goats
on a rubbish tip, then further along a huge white dog standing on a pile of rubbish watching
over a flock of sheep. It‟s a flat plain all the way to Patra, with market gardens and adjacent
Gypsy camps.
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As we get closer to Patra we see beautiful Mt Panachaiko to the east, then the Rio
Andirio Bridge linking the Peloponnese to the mainland, a spectacular cable stayed
construction nearly ten thousand feet long, opened in 2004. We could have driven over it to
get into Albania through northern Greece and then up to Croatia, but we‟ve decided to take
two ferries and go via Italy instead.
Our year long third party insurance policy for the van was hard to find and it doesn‟t
cover Albania. We would need to buy more insurance at the border for the two or three days
it would take to drive through to Croatia. We‟re a bit nervous about sleeping in the van in
Albania so we‟d need to stay in a hotel. It seems quicker, safer and no more expensive to
catch the ferry from Patra to Bari in Italy, and from there to Dubrovnik in Croatia.
Unfortunately ferries are expensive. That‟s the reason we‟ve decided not to visit Crete which
is a disappointment.
As we drive into Patra we see the high rocky mountains of the mainland up in the
north, then the road funnels us to the wharf where we find a park by a marina full of beautiful
yachts. We immediately notice lots of men walking along in groups. They‟re not Greeks and
we realise that they‟re the asylum seekers from Afghanistan and Iraq that we‟ve heard about.
They come here to stow away on lorries going to Italy, and once they‟re in Italy it‟s easier to
get to the UK. Many have a good look at us and we feel very conspicuous with our UK
plates and steering wheel on the right. We pick up our ticket at the ferry company office. It‟s
Saturday afternoon and lots of locals are sitting outside at cafes. It‟s an uneasy combination,
the cool Greeks, all sunglasses and groovy clothes sitting in the sunshine, and the desperate
wannabe stowaways walking past.
A small parking area on the wharf beside where the ferries dock looks like a safe
option to park. We move the van there and back up to a position six feet away from a high
fence laced with razor wire. In front of the van it‟s about a hundred and fifty feet to a ferry
which is tied up loading. About thirty men look hungrily through the fence behind us, the
odd one climbing over and making a vain attempt to get in the back of one of the lorries on
the wharf.
Police guard the entrance to the wharf day and night, and when a ferry is there the
place is swarming with port police and the army. Beyond the ferry is a small breakwater,
ships anchored and coming and going, and beyond that the glorious deep turquoise blue sea.
It feels like we‟re between the devil and the deep blue sea.
There‟s an area where the lorry drivers park to sleep, but we feel that we would be
too conspicuous there, as we‟ve got two nights to fill in before our ferry leaves. Buses,
lorries, cars and passengers all load and unload in front of us. Security guards search the cab
and undercarriage of every vehicle. They also search inside the lorries. It‟s as if all this is
happening on a stage and we‟re in the front stalls.
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I go for a walk and find it very unnerving going past so many desperate men. They
call out and try to engage. I locate a laundry for Monday morning, hoping to get our laundry
washed and dried before we catch the ferry on Monday evening. That night we have a very
unsettled sleep due to the noise of the midnight ferry loading and unloading. We notice that
whenever a ferry is tied up, the men behind the fence try to climb over, and the police are
constantly telling them to get away from the fence.
Next day when a ferry is about to leave we see a black man with a suitcase being
removed and thrown into an army vehicle by soldiers. We wonder what‟s going on since
none of the asylum seekers have any gear with them and this guy looks different. We see a
guy on the other side of the fence being hit by a policeman with a baton. I type an email, put
it on the memory stick and we walk in to town.
In the Athens Today English language paper I read the background on the asylum
seekers who are mainly from Iraq and Afghanistan. A few days ago a lorry driver drove
forward and hit a man trying to climb into the back of the lorry in front. The man is now in a
coma. There was also a blockade of the port by lorry drivers protesting about the asylum
seekers. We seem to have turned up at a point where the police presence is very high and
there‟s no chance of anyone stowing away successfully.
Recently a driver got to Italy and a body dropped from underneath his lorry. The
paper describes how the men live in a shanty town at the northern end of Patra. Local
immigrant groups have come out in support of the asylum seekers. We see posters around
town about the issue, with photos of people climbing over a fence, and one of them has these
words in English “Freedom of movement and residence for all immigrants and asylum
seekers. Abolish the return directive.”
We go for a walk around the town and climb up to a high point by the old castle to
look at the view. In the distance, over the rooftops, we see very steep hills falling into the sea
on the mainland. Way beyond that will be Albania with a similar rocky coastline. We‟re
very relieved to be leaving Greece by ferry. It‟s been a difficult decision, but the plight of the
illegal immigrants has been unnerving, and it feels good to be heading for Italy. It‟s illogical
when viewed on a map, but sensible in terms of risk.
We have lunch and read the papers in the ferry terminal then go for a walk north to
see the asylum seekers‟ camp. Some of the men are hanging out in a playground and further
along we come across two washing clothes in a bowl beside a hosepipe. But what really
amazes us is a large unfinished apartment block six stories high, just concrete floors and
internal walls, which is home for lots of these men. Underneath the building they have
cooking fires, and on all levels there are men and their gear. Many are also on the beach.
The paper says that the locals are very unhappy with a shanty town where a thousand
or so illegal immigrants live, and that the authorities agreed to build accommodation for
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them, but this hasn‟t happened. We don‟t walk as far as the shanty town, but I learn a year
later that it was bulldozed by the authorities. Greece has the lowest approval rate for asylum
seekers in the EU, so virtually all of them have to leave.
When we get back to the port John asks a few of the guys by the fence where they
come from. One speaks English - Afghanistan. They have some kind of a permit to be here
for a month and they‟re trying to get to Italy. There is so much we want to ask them, like
how they got here, but the last thing we want is for the police to think we‟re fraternising.
We notice that one of the men has climbed over the fence and is running around
between the lorries with a cop on a little motorbike in hot pursuit. It looks ridiculous. Our
contempt for the Greek police increases. We‟ve never seen police with such an
unprofessional attitude. They smoke, drink coffee and socialise with each other constantly.
A group of a dozen men is jogging along the road behind a lorry heading to the wharf,
trying ineffectually to open the door at the back. The average age would be twenty, with a
range from fourteen to forty. Strangely they look Asian to us with wide faces. We sneak
back to the van when the police are otherwise occupied.
Next day we take the washing in and they have it all done by eleven which is
fantastic. We find a cafe with nice gentle staff and have coffee and talk on skype. On our
way back we see men climbing the fence in spite of the razor wire. We also see the strangest
level crossing. When a train comes, a woman walks out with a red flag, blows a whistle and
manually puts down a barrier to stop the traffic.
We check in at the ferry office and discover that we‟re travelling on the oldest ship in
the Super Fast fleet. We drive down the wharf and park ready to drive on board. There
seems to be no gate at this point and the asylum seekers are casually walking through and
hiding in the shrubs. A couple actually walk into the hold of the ship which is already open.
Some others are hanging around an unattended lorry and when we see a guy‟s feet under the
middle of it we realise he‟s climbed up inside from underneath. Later he emerges onto the
wharf. It‟s all so casual and the police are nowhere to be seen. Then the lorry driver
(German) comes back and one of the guys asks him if he can get in the back. He gets a no.
Then a couple of them come over to our window to talk to John. They‟re from Somalia and
Palestine. John says, “Somalia and Palestine, big trouble”, and the Somalian guy slumps
visibly and says, “Thank you, thank you”, grateful to have it acknowledged. He politely asks
if he can hide in the van. John tells him no because they search all the vehicles and we‟ll get
into trouble. He accepts this. We give them fifty Euros. We make a mental note to
remember all this when Kiwis complain about how hard their lives are.
A police four wheel drive arrives with one cop in it. He drives around the lorries
chasing one guy. Then he gets out and runs after him and kicks him as he gets away. It‟s
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unbelievable. The cop is puffed. It‟s obvious they are incapable of dealing with the
situation. No wonder the lorry drivers are so dissatisfied.
It‟s a perfect calm day and we can board our ferry, the beautiful Blue Horizon, at four
thirty, an hour and a half before departure. We‟re hugely relieved to get on board. With the
van safely parked in the hold we go up onto the top deck and look out over Patra to the hill
and castle and snow covered mountains at the back. We look down at all the lorries driving
on board. We had wondered why the stowaways didn‟t climb on top of the lorries and
spreadeagle themselves there, but we realise now that they would be visible from the ship.
As we sail out we get a fabulous view of the Rio Bridge and notice that the tug is
named Hermes. How Greek is that? Relieved to be leaving Greece, we order Heineken and
crisps and have a meal in the self service restaurant. It feels so luxurious, like we‟re on a
cruise. There aren‟t many passengers: lorry drivers, locals, a school group, and a handful of
tourists. Lots of them have cabins and we decide to abandon our aircraft style seats for the
comfortable couches. Apart from a bit of a roll it‟s very calm.
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Chapter 10 Italy, Croatia, Bosnia-Hercegovina, Slovenia
10 March – 8 April
Is Not Bin Laden
The ferry berths in Bari at eleven in the morning Italian time after an eighteen hour
journey. Expecting to arrive at eight, we‟re a bit taken aback, and console ourselves with a
fried breakfast in the ferry cafe. By the time we get down to the hold the truckies are revving
their motors, and we have to squeeze through a labyrinth of lorries with clouds of diesel
fumes, as we try to find the van. It‟s so tight that I have to take off my small backpack to
pass between them, and it feels like one of those scary car park scenes in a movie. It‟s the
only time on the whole trip when I feel afraid.
Once we‟re on Italian soil it‟s warm and easy and we have time to catch up on some
sleep as our ferry to Dubrovnik doesn‟t leave till ten the next night.
We explore Bari‟s tiny medieval streets and buy big red garlic, bok choi, little
broccoli, and tomatoes in an old arcaded market.
After a quiet night parked on the wharf we spend the next day reading in the van. I‟ve
just started “Oliver Twist”. We learn a few words of Croatian which reminds us of Czech.
Several ferries are lined up for Montenegro, Albania and Greece.
When it‟s time to drive on board we‟re at the head of the queue and lead the way
along the wharf to our little ferry. The Croatian guy checking us in doesn‟t want to see our
passports when he hears we‟re from New Zealand and says, “Is not terrorist. Is not bin
Laden. Welcome!” We drive to the stern and notice that there‟s room for just one line of
vehicles.
There‟s a glorious full moon. We settle down with a can of beer, a blanket and pillow
each on adjacent couches. The few cockroaches on the floor don‟t upset us too much
although I‟m careful to keep the blanket tucked in. To introduce a family of cockroaches into
the van would be too much. Only eight passengers are with us in the lounge with the rest
sleeping in cabins, so it‟s pretty easy. It‟s a very old fashioned little ship with a large dining
room full of tables covered with starched white tablecloths.
After a peaceful crossing we go up on deck at six thirty and discover that we‟re
heading along the Croatian coast between islands and the land. It‟s steep and rocky, with the
loveliest blue water. When we land at seven the female official who inspects the back of the
van looks inside with undisguised contempt. We‟re getting used to this! We drive into
Dubrovnik and find a spot in a car park just outside the city walls. We spend the next couple
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of days exploring the old town on foot, while trying to conceal the fact that we‟re living in
the van. Who knows what the car park attendants think.
Dubrovnik is a perfect walled medieval town, meticulously restored since the war in
the early 1990s but with a few bullet holes still visible. It‟s right on the sea. We walk around
the two miles of walls, a fantastic experience on a perfect sunny day. The views are
marvellous – across terracotta tile roofs down into the old town, up to the steep hills at the
back (still harbouring landmines according to the guidebook), and out across the smooth sea,
which looks like slightly wrinkled blue foil. People have tiny vegetable and flower gardens
on patches of flat land inside the walls. At a little market where people sell their own
produce we buy some tiny purple broccoli. Later the cooking water turns the instant mash an
interesting shade of mauve.
We visit the Dubrovnik Defenders‟ Memorial which has photographs of soldiers who
died defending the town in the recent war. It has a visitors‟ book where John is amazed to
read comments like “Thanks for defending this beautiful city so I can come and visit it.”
Only one person mentions that they were fighting for their freedom.
On the way out of Dubrovnik we stop at Port Guza and visit both the supermarket and
outdoor market and buy dried figs and wild asparagus. There are very cheap oysters in the
shell, and black squid ink drips onto the floor. The range of greens is fantastic, lots of
variations on broccoli and kale, plus home grown Kiwifruit.
We drive around a large inlet with with steep limestone hills, and a marina with
massive launches and yachts. To the west are islands and sea of the deepest blue. Beside the
road are steep terraced hillsides with olives, and a bird of prey is right there by the sea,
manoeuvring like a kite.
We decide to stop at the Trsteno Arboretum, five hundred years old, and planted with
seeds from exotic trees brought back over the centuries from all over the world by seafarers.
It has a five hundred year old plane tree at the entrance. It‟s wonderful to be in the familiar
and peaceful atmosphere of an old garden again. We wander along all the paths and down to
the beach, and strike up a conversation with a friendly couple from Canada. He was born in
Croatia and they spend long periods here. They‟re visiting the arboretum to check on the
progress of a little banyan tree which they brought over from Florida a year ago. We talk
with them for a long time and he tells John some of the history and politics of Croatia.
Apparently mass graves of people executed under Tito‟s rule are now being uncovered. They
also tell us that it‟s nearly impossible to find people to work as shepherds here. It‟s a nice
outdoor job, all living expenses paid, good money, and European sheep seem much better
behaved than New Zealand ones.
Next we head out on the Peljesac peninsula, past mussel and oyster farms. People are
out planting vegetables, pruning olives and grapevines, and tending bonfires. Large areas of
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hillside have been newly terraced with grey limestone walls. The grapevines are short, squat,
gnarled and twisted, severely cut back, and with no supports. There‟s virtually no topsoil.
The wild almond is in blossom, and at Ponicve, weeping willow has fine new green leaves.
We park beside the water at Drace. Apart from a couple of men doing things with
nets and a little dinghy, it‟s utterly still and silent. We have frittata made with onion, bacon,
red pepper and wild asparagus, and watch the men set out in the dinghy with a big gas bottle
and a large light. Perhaps they‟re fishing for squid. They putter off in the dark and we can
hear their little two stroke motor disappearing into the distance. A chef comes down to the
edge of the wharf and hauls up a kind of craypot on a rope. He takes out several small bags
and returns to the tiny restaurant over the road. Two cars pull up and people go in to dine.
We‟re in bed by seven.
In the morning we see the two men in the dinghy returning. John reckons they set
nets and have been out to pick them up. A woman and another man are on the wharf cleaning
squid and small fish. After hauling up a crab pot in the bay, the men in the dinghy pull up at
the wharf and one of them spears two fish with a long four pronged spear.
It‟s sunny and the water is rippling silver. Other dinghies are out. I open the side
door and have breakfast in the sun. John just has to go and watch the fishermen. He talks to
the father of one of them who tells him they‟ve caught bream. They‟re back home for a
weekend of fishing. When John tells him we‟re from New Zealand, he‟s surprised. He tells
us Croatians have gone to New Zealand, South Africa, California and Australia to make
wine. He indicates why would you want to go to South Africa? John says, “Why would you
leave here?”
Further along a man arrives back in a little dinghy and he proudly displays a small
swordfish he‟s caught, about three feet long. I walk around the little concrete manmade
harbour and look down into the clear deep water. There are black sea slugs about ten inches
long, and in the shallows, clams six inches across. Cats are hanging around the wharf.
Moufflon Country
At Janjna there are more short ancient gnarled vines, red soil, and rigid terracing on
the hillside. New vineyards have been carved out of the steep hills with new white stone
terracing. We pass through Trstenik a beautiful little village on a bay. Everything is green
and there‟s wild heather and rosemary in flower. We head inland through steep pine forest
and stop at a WW2 memorial at the highest point on the peninsula. It‟s a curved bronze relief
sculpture six feet high and twenty five feet long telling the story of the Croatians fighting the
Nazis, overcoming them, then Communism making everyone happy. It‟s a beautiful work of
art but it‟s got bullet holes in it. On the back are the names of four hundred and fifty soldiers
from villages on the Peljesac peninsula who died in WW2. A Croatian guy pulls up in a car
and comes over. He tells me he visits this beautiful spot, looking down over the land and out
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to sea and the islands, every day. I ask him about the bullet holes. He says that in the 1990s
war, soldiers returning from the front twenty five miles away vented their anger about
Communism on this sculpture.
We lift the mattress, bedding and all the carpets out of the van and put them in the
sun to air. It‟s exciting to see all the carpets again as we haven‟t had a chance to put things
out in the sun like this for months. We spend a couple of hours sorting everything out. A big
glossy black raven flies overhead croaking loudly. Another one croaks from a rocky bluff.
We wonder if she‟s on a nest.
The next place is Pijavicino where there are native golden pines. It‟s a flat plain with
red soil, long lines of compost, and solid with grapes. Then we could be in a traditional
Chinese garden of little pines and other stunted trees growing out of grey rock. Fine mare‟s
tails are in the sky. The coast appears again and we travel through spectacular hairpins, then
stop at a lookout to gaze down over about twenty islands, with the town of Orebic in the
distance.
On the edge of Orebic we drive in to a petrol station to get water. I leap down from
the van with the big plastic water container and start filling it from an outside tap.
Unfortunately I‟ve forgotten to ask the proprietor, who I actually thought was a customer as
he didn‟t come over and greet me. He gives me a good telling off. I apologise but give him
some arguments back and we drive off with our container only half full. A few choice
comments spring to mind as we get down the road.
In Orebic, tamarisk trees line the sea front, the magnolias have pink flowers, and we
see cacti, daffodils, tulips, and broad beans in flower. We set off up steep hairpins inland,
looking down on the sea, with Korcula and other islands in the distance. To the north east are
the snowy mountains of Hercegovina.
Closer at hand the landscape has been cultivated for centuries, with stone walls,
olives, and the odd big fig tree. At Loviste, minute seaside gardens have stocks, tiny olive
trees, and huge white irises. Cyclamens are flowering outside. We drive along the sea front
looking in vain for somewhere to park. We decide that our favourite Croatian surname is
Bonkovich.
Heading back the way we‟ve come we stop at a lookout and watch a kestrel hovering
above the cliff. We drive down into Viganj which is famous for its steady wind every
afternoon along a fifteen hundred foot stretch of beach, making it the perfect venue for the
world windsurfing championships. At the moment the place is deserted with all the holiday
accommodation empty. We find a quiet spot to park by the water‟s edge and look across to
Korcula Island which was settled by the Greeks in the 6th century BC. We go for a walk past
a mix of old and new houses, little jetties, boats, pine trees, lemon trees in blossom, and
daffodils. An older man is filling a wheelbarrow with driftwood from the beach and he stops
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to talk. He says that the place becomes too crowded in July and August. He tells us that the
wind is the mistral, and now is a good time to catch squid since it‟s cooler. We tell him about
the swordfish at Drace. He says there‟s not much money around and people make a bit off
tourism, olives, grapes and fishing. Some villages near here closed down in the 1960s when
all the inhabitants moved to places like New Zealand. Over on Korcula there are parts where
Croatians who emigrated to Australia and New Zealand have come back with lots of money
to build big houses. He also tells us that in the steep rocky mountains behind us (three
thousand feet) there are wild sheep called moufflons which come to within six hundred feet
of his mother‟s house. There‟s also a small animal like a fox.
We have a peaceful night but in the morning we wake up at six to find people coming
and going all around us because we‟ve parked at the bus stop. A ferry arrives at the wharf
beside us and takes the high school students to Korcula. We wait till everyone leaves, then
creep into the front seat and drive to a quiet spot for breakfast.
In the past, grapes from the Dignac terroir (a narrow four mile strip of extremely steep
land) were carried from the vineyard to the winery by donkeys. It‟s an area that looks
impossible to cultivate, but the conditions are perfect for grape growing – a southwest facing
slope where the calcified soil holds the heat, with the added benefit of sunlight reflected off
the sea. Access is difficult and we have to drive it in two chunks. It‟s a patchwork of little
plots and terraces of different coloured soils, most with short old vines very close together.
Somehow they manage to rotary hoe between them. We head towards Podobuce on the low
road and see people digging holes with crowbars to plant vines. A few olives are growing
here as well. We drive down a twelve hundred foot long unlit tunnel which was hand dug by
the locals in the 1960s. Before that everything was taken over the top. Vines grow on the
cliff above the sea and it‟s so steep that sometimes the lowest terrace is concreted at the base.
There‟s a range of plants clinging on here: heather, viburnum, rosemary, thyme, macrocarpa,
holm oak, pine, tsuga, juniper, and sage. If another vehicle comes we have to back up to let
them pass. A high fence runs down from the top of the hill to the tunnel and we wonder what
it‟s for.
Safely back at the other end of the tunnel we decide to pay a visit to Matusko Wines
where a lovely young woman gives us a tour. We taste a couple of the red wines and she tells
us about the winery. First of all, the fence on the hill is to keep out the moufflons as they like
to come down and eat the vines and grapes. The wine is kept in barrels of Croatian oak for
six months and they also use oak barrels from Portugal and France.
There are two wine growing areas here, the continental (inland, where this winery is)
and coastal which is the Dignac terroir. The wine from the continental part is ordinary, and
from the Dignac it‟s very intense and concentrated. In the coastal part the vines are planted
about three feet apart and they produce a couple of pounds of high sugar grapes per vine.
The grapes are the small Mali variety and the coastal ones fetch forty kuna for over two
pounds. The continental ones are planted further apart and produce double the quantity of
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grapes which sell for a quarter of the price. The reason why the vines are kept short is to
allow the leaves to protect the grapes from the sun.
The Dignac red won the prize for the best Croatian red wine in 2008. The guide
shows us an old donkey pack saddle like we‟ve seen being used in Turkey. The grapes are
picked by the families of the people who own the small plots of vines. The harvest lasts for
twenty days. The reason why there is so much planting of new grapevines at the moment is
that if Croatia joins the EU, there will be restrictions on what they can plant, so people are
getting in early. Like many Croatians our guide doesn‟t think joining the EU would be a
good thing for Croatia as they aren‟t keen to be told what to do by anyone. Only a small
amount of wine is exported from this area, to their near neighbours. We buy some of the
delicious Dignac red.
Feeling confident after a few days in Croatia, and realising how close Sarajevo is to
the coast, we make the big decision to visit Bosnia – Hercegovina. For our generation
Sarajevo will always be defined by the notorious siege by the Bosnian Serbs from 1992 to
1995, so we want to visit some of the places we saw on the television news, and begin to
understand the people and their history.
Retracing our path back down the peninsula, past Drace and through bluebells and
grape hyacinths, we‟re in a haze of woodsmoke from the pruning fires. We head north where
the road goes though Bosnia for nine kilometres, a concession to the Ottomans who wanted
sea access. The border guard has one hand on his gun as he asks for our passports. We go
through a stretch of beaches, holiday apartments and hotels, then we‟re back in Croatia again.
We see the snowy Hercegovina mountains in the distance before reaching the delta of the
Neretva River. It looks like it‟s been drained for productive land, with many ponds and
waterways breaking up the citrus orchards, tunnel houses and crops.
As we follow the river inland we see whitebait stands, and then, oh joy, a Romanian
haystack, a cow, and huge stacks of firewood beside rough dwellings on the riverbank. We
stop at the town of Metkovic, just inside Croatia, on the border with Bosnia and Hercegovina.
After driving around and finding a spot where we can get on line and talk on skype, we park
on the wharf by the river for the night. Bats are flying over the water catching insects. We
have smoked sausages, onions, instant mash and silver beet for dinner and go to bed with a
mix of anticipation and nervousness. Tomorrow we‟ll be in Sarajevo.
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Breakfast in Bosnia
Next morning a crow is fossicking on the ground in front of the van and willow
catkins are floating on the fast flowing river. At the border crossing, the guard is bored with
us and quickly returns to his crossword. The Neretva River is beautiful, wide, deep and
turquoise, reminiscent of the Clutha in New Zealand. The river flats are covered with
gardens, orchards and tunnel houses. We see mosques and Mercedes vans, a relief on both
counts. The hillsides are stony and crisscrossed with rock walls, and there are little groups of
stone houses with walls but no roofs. We wonder if they‟ve been bombed. There are also
Moslem cemeteries with their slim pointed headstones.
The road takes us through numerous tunnels under rocky bluffs. People are moving
rotary hoes around on trailers, magnolias are in flower, and the cherry and plum blossom is
out. We pass abandoned feedlots from the Communist era. Geese fly overhead, beating their
wings as they switch places. We‟re overtaken by the Bosnian army and notice that the road
signs are in the Cyrillic alphabet. Lucky for us they give an English version as well.
At the edge of Mostar we see bombed out buildings and shell damage on the ones that
are still standing. In fact everything is riddled with bullet holes, and even some rusted old
cement hoppers have big shell holes. We see some nuns, and cemeteries with graves from
the recent war. Crows are building nests, and big bags of potatoes and chrysanthemums are
for sale at the roadside.
The railway line is on the other side of the river from the road and it looks like it
would be an exciting train trip from the coast to Sarajevo. The escarpments are spectacular
and the map shows mountains over six thousand feet high. We come to a long hydro lake
and go through a dramatic series of tunnels. They raise salmon in fish farms on the lake with
pontoons to access them, and there are houseboats as well. The cliffs are covered with bare
trees and the place has quite a sad and desolate feel, but the road has new seal making driving
easier. A train goes past and it‟s a mishmash of different rolling stock, then we see a hydro
dam with the EU logo on it.
At Jablanica there‟s a subtle change in the houses as they become more alpine.
There‟s strip farming in the valley and Romanian haystacks, then beautiful green velvety
strips of grass running up the hillside. We see women in Moslem dress. It‟s like the rural
countryside in Romania with beehives, piles of firewood, and structures built for the new
season‟s hay, a pole up the middle with a rough wooden platform on the ground. In the
village of Bradina snow lies beside the road and we see more bullet holes and blown up
houses. The sky is cloudy and snow is predicted in two days time. We drive though Tunnel
Ivan, two thousand feet long, then we‟re at the top of the pass where there‟s pussy willow and
a patchwork of grass and trees. Further down, the rivers are full of rubbish. There are
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crocuses, piles of mucked out straw, sheep and hens by a barn. Wooden houses and carvings
remind us of Zakopane in Poland.
We turn off at Ilidza, where soldiers stand beside the road, and the police stop us and
check our passports and John‟s licence. We find the Hotel Bosna beside the Bosna River. A
guy in Dubrovnik gave John some advice on Sarajevo, where to stay, what to eat, and he
suggested staying at Ilidza on the outskirts, and catching the tram into town. We check in
and the price is reduced because the internet connection isn‟t working. It‟s a flash hotel by
our standards with hot water and heating. We go to the shops and get Konvertible Marks
from the ATM. The local currency is tagged to half the value of the Euro. Then we go to the
post office where they are very nice and patient with us.
We look at a stall selling books on Islam, prayer beads and DVDs. There‟s a
documentary on Guantanamo Bay in English, and this leads us into chatting with the guy on
the stall, in his forties with a traditional Moslem beard. He was born in Dubrovnik, fought in
the recent war for the Croatian army, got a serious injury, still owns a house in Dubrovnik,
but feels uncomfortable being a Moslem there. So he moved his family to Sarajevo and
started off the stall by selling his own books. He tells us he makes a good living now. People
weren‟t allowed to discuss religion in the Communist era and now there‟s a hunger for these
books. He says legally he has the same rights as anyone else in Croatia but he experienced
discrimination there.
We catch the tram to town and it follows the infamous “Snipers‟ Alley” where snipers
on the surrounding hills shot at anyone travelling the route during the siege. There‟s a
multitude of Communist era apartment buildings, large and ugly, most with damage from the
war. On the surrounding hills we can see the tree line which formed the front line. For three
desperate winters people crept up from the town and took all the trees below this line for
firewood.
The tram goes around the National Library, a large beautiful ornate stone building in
terracotta and beige stripes. It was built in the late 19th century when the country was part of
the Austro-Hungarian Empire. The Serbs deliberately bombed it in 1992 on its centenary,
destroying a large chunk of the country‟s archives and cultural history. The guidebook tells
us how the residents risked their lives to rescue its treasures, but most of the collection was
lost. The exterior has been restored but it‟s boarded up.
We go to the Turkish area for a nostalgic look at kilims, carpets and scarves. One
small shop sells only old and antique kilims made in Bosnia. The guy is very keen to tell us
about them and he shows us one from the 19th century which is very fine and beautiful. He
shows us photos of a carpet factory set up by a wealthy Viennese man in the early 1900s
where women were employed to weave beautiful kilims. His grandmother worked there for
forty years. He explains a couple of the images woven into the kilims to us: the spider
protects the house, and turtles mean long life.
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Then we have a look round a large shop in an old han full of beautiful cheap Persian
carpets and kilims. They also have a large woven bag which nomadic people would use to
carry their clothes and linen when they moved around. We have a cay and walk around
enjoying the old Turkish buildings including a mosque from the 1500s. The people are tall
and friendly, ninety per cent Moslem, and not many of the women wear head scarves. We
have a delicious lunch of stew with the fluffiest flat bread. We see only two other tourists. I
buy some crocheted teddy bears which look very like Mr Bean‟s teddy, made by refugee
women.
Back at the hotel we turn on Aljazeera and catch up on the news. As it gets dark all
the crows roost in one tree outside our window. John takes a picture of them and when the
flash goes off they scatter, startled. Sarajevo crows, so it‟s not surprising. They‟re back the
next night.
When we get up next morning it‟s snowing. We have breakfast of the tastiest bacon,
fried eggs, bread rolls, cranberry jam, nutella, honey, juice, and Bosnian coffee which comes
in a tiny copper long handled jug. You pour it into a little bowl with sugar cubes. It‟s very
thick and gritty, with a delicious flavour. You can imagine it warming people in some very
tough times. It comes with a small piece of Turkish delight. When we look out the window
it‟s stopped snowing and the conifers on the hills are now covered.
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Stari Stari Most
We catch the tram in to Sarajevo again and notice that the primroses are out. The city
runs along a valley with the Miljacka River in the centre, and the small hills on each side are
covered with the most beautiful houses. They all have terracotta tile roofs and come in many
colours: turquoise, brown, yellow, white, pink, beige, green, and lime green. They look like
storybook houses, three or four stories high, with lots of windows and balconies. Of course
the vast majority of people live in the gargantuan scarred apartment blocks. As we ride on
the tram we think of New Zealand camera woman Margaret Moth who was shot and
seriously injured on Snipers‟ Alley during the war.
We visit the History Museum and learn that Bosnia went from being an independent
state, to part of the Ottoman Empire for four hundred years, to part of the Austro-Hungarian
Empire, then part of Yugoslavia, briefly an independent state, then mayhem, and finally now
independent again. There‟s a huge exhibition on the siege of Sarajevo by the Serbs. It
includes photos, words, ingenious home made devices to make light and cook food, home
made weapons, and the possessions of people who were killed. It‟s extremely depressing but
we learn so much.
People lived with erratic electricity and little water or fuel. They grew vegetables on
their balconies, and patches of land near apartment blocks were turned into vegetable
gardens. Nettles became an important food. Schools, factories, museums, and hospitals were
targeted by the Serbs. Twelve thousand people died, eighteen hundred of them children;
fifteen thousand children were injured, and one hundred and fifty thousand people fled the
city. This was from a population of about four hundred thousand people. Many new
cemeteries were made to cope with the dead. Adults lost an average of nearly twenty pounds
each in body weight.
It‟s all still so fresh, and the items on display are a fascinating illustration of the
realities of daily life for people. One of the ways in which their spirit came through was in
the many cultural performances which took place during the siege, including a concert by the
Sarajevo Philharmonic Orchestra in the burnt Town Hall.
On the way out we talk with the man in the ticket office. He tells us he‟s very
unhappy with the government, and Bosnians are unhappy with the Dayton Accord (the peace
plan at the end of the war). He asks why it took so long for the outside world to intervene,
believes that the EU is against Bosnia, and that Bosnia has no allies. Serbs who live in
Bosnia cheer for the Serbian football team, and likewise the Croatians who live in Bosnia
cheer for the Croatian football team. He becomes quite upset when talking about the hell of
the siege, and the older woman with him is visibly distressed, weeping and nodding.
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It‟s an exhausting visit and afterwards we feel gutted. We take a taxi up to a high
point to get a view over the city, then walk back down to Imat Kuca, a little restaurant that
just serves Bosnian food and plays Bosnian soul music. We have burek which is mince and
very thin pastry in a gigantic spiral. It‟s great ribsticking food, and we need it because it
starts snowing. The restaurant is right on the river in a little three storied Ottoman house
called the Spite House, which has been shifted twice. The first time was when the Austrians
wanted to put up a government building on the site where it stood, and the owner insisted that
it be moved. Then again when the new site was required, it was moved again. It‟s a very
charming old building with exposed wooden beams, and little windows and staircases,
looking across the river towards the National Library.
Later, at an internet cafe, we meet Joe, a young Kiwi travelling on his own from
Scandanavia to Israel, couch surfing and catching trains, and particularly fascinated with the
Balkans. We have a cay with him and swap stories. He tells us that the Croatians are said to
be the least friendly of the Balkans people, and the Serbs the friendliest.
We go looking for the Land Mine Action Centre and can‟t find it but end up at a large
building site which turns out to be the site of the new American Embassy. We ask a
charming American for directions and he asks his Bosnian workmates, but no joy. Near
where we‟re staying at Ilidja we‟ve seen the Lady Di cafe. She visited Bosnia and
Hercegovina with the Landmine Survivors‟ Network in 1997.
It snows overnight and the trees are covered. We have to clear the van‟s windscreen
before we drive into town along Snipers‟ Alley just for the hell of it (past the Holiday Inn
where journalists were holed up during the siege) and take some more pictures. Sarajevo is
beautiful in the snow, with the houses on the hills covered and the countryside beyond
blanketed, a patchwork of white fields, bare deciduous trees, white conifers and hills, all
different textures.
As we head back towards Mostar we see snow covered mountains, warmer grassy
slopes, and a few sheep. It‟s picturesque on such a sunny day. It‟s all downhill retracing our
steps back towards the coast catching sight of the railway line as we go. Joe told us that the
train trip from Mostar to Sarajevo was spectacular, following the river, through tunnels and
hairpin bends, under rocky bluffs, and across viaducts, with the most stunning scenery.
We‟re pleased to reach Mostar, a medieval settlement which came under Ottoman
rule in the middle of the 15th century, then Austrian occupation from the late 19th century.
The tiny ancient section of the city clusters around the banks of the Neretva River, with the
famous Stari Most (Old Bridge), at the heart. The bridge was built by the Turks, designed by
a famous architect from Istanbul, completed in 1566, and destroyed by the Croatians in 1993.
Its rebuilding was completed in 2004. It has a magnetic attraction, with its beautiful and
gravity defying arch over the icy river eighty feet below. The name Mostar means bridge
guardians, and clearly a bridge on this spot has been extremely important for centuries. In the
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summer, young men dive off it (a tradition that is hundreds of years old), and there‟s an
annual diving contest. It‟s surprisingly steep to walk across, with thick raised bands of stone
every fourteen inches to stop your feet slipping. Quaint Ottoman era buildings cluster at each
end of the bridge. Of course the whole place has been rebuilt, with one reference referring to
the look of the place after the war as similar to Dresden.
Mostar, like Sarajevo, had been a model of peace and harmony between people of
different ethnic groups and religions. Then, some months after fighting alongside Moslems
when the city was besieged by the Serb and Montegrin soldiers, the Croats attacked the
Moslems, moving them to detention camps on the eastern side of the river. Huge destruction,
including the destruction of the famous bridge, tragedy, and bitterness were the result. After
the war, the city was divided, with Croatians (Christians) on one side, and Moslems on the
other. There were two separate systems of government. They are now becoming integrated,
and it‟s unclear to us how far that process has gone, but the guy in the bookshop is very sad
about it all.
We find a safe car park on the western side beside the rebuilt Church of St Peter and
Paul with adjoining Franciscan monastery. Later a man emerges from the direction of the
church and indicates that it will cost us five Euros a night to park here. Then he takes me
over to the immaculate toilet block, unlocks it, and turns on the water at an outside tap for us.
We have a very peaceful night after an exhausting few days of challenging driving on steep
roads, snow, and being confronted with such sad history.
It‟s reassuring to hear the call to prayer from the mosques, as well as the bells from
our church. Sometimes they go off within a couple of minutes of each other. The streets in
the old area are lined with shops selling souvenirs with a Turkish design. Turkish style is like
a dominant gene, its visible everywhere.
Next day we walk down to the river‟s edge and around the old town. We find a great
supermarket and a bakery. I can now say “Hello, two mince pies please, thank you,
goodbye”, in Croatian. For two nights running we have burek (mince pie in a spiral), instant
mash, and frozen vegetables for dinner. John‟s in heaven.
Only a few tourists are around, older earnest ones like us, and a few small busloads
from Italy who park near us. We return to the van for a cup of Earl Grey and watch the
robins bobbing around the car park.
There are cemeteries full of young men killed in 1993 – 1995. We‟ve also seen a
couple of men with only one leg getting around on crutches - land mine casualties.
Next day we walk up the hill on the Moslem side where there‟s an old Christian
cemetery. We realise that the split of the town must have separated people from their dead.
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We get a great view over the area but don‟t go right to the top because there‟s a group of men
up there sitting around a fire.
We visit the museum where the traditional costumes are very similar to Romanian
ones. The best part is a silent movie from the 1960s which shows the beautiful old bridge
with children jumping and men diving off it, then the same scenes in the 1980s. The
shocking footage of its destruction follows, then the retrieval of stone building blocks from
the river, and its reconstruction. The final part shows the reopening of the Stari Most with
fireworks and fantastic night diving. Unsurprisingly, at the ceremony, when various
politicians are walking across the bridge, Franjo Tudman, the president of Croatia, is booed
and people call out “Murderer!”
The wind has been blowing for days now. John buys “The Fall of Yugoslavia” by
Misha Glenny and we learn some of the background to the conflict. We notice that the
houses and other old stone buildings including mosques, which have been restored after
bomb damage, have been given new stone roofs.
One day we‟re surprised and delighted to discover some old Bosnian kilims in a tiny
shop. The ones we buy are long and narrow, with large geometric patterns in red, pink,
yellow, orange, lime green and blue.
As usual, living in the car park we see lots of comings and goings. Gypsy beggars
come into our car park and accost the tour groups, and two disabled men wait patiently
outside the church when there‟s a service. Nuns and monks arrive and depart in cars, and
there are large congregations at certain times.
On Sunday we go for a walk into the more modern Christian area. Young people are
out everywhere having coffee in cafes. We try to find the Partisans‟ Memorial Cemetery
(honouring resistance fighters who died in WW2) but it‟s up an unkempt hillside and there
are a few groups of young men around so we decide to leave it. Perhaps it‟s not such an
important site to people these days. We stop at a tiny fast food place and have cevapi the
local takeaway, little meat balls in spongy flat bread (somun) served with a red pepper paste
and chopped raw onion. Later we get some groceries in a little dairy and the lovely Moslem
woman tells me that things are very bad in Mostar.
Back in the van I‟m reading Patrick Leigh Fermor‟s “Roumeli” about northern Greece
plus reminiscences and observations on Greece in general, and John plunges into Misha
Glenny‟s “The Fall of Yugoslavia”. At quarter to six the car park suddenly starts to fill up
with young people going to church. The men are nondescript as they are the world over, but
the women uniformly have long straight hair, skin tight jeans or tights, and high heeled shoes
or boots. One is in lime green tights. The huge church is packed. At six when the service is
starting, the call to prayer goes out from a mosque.
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Snakes and Land Mines
We realise that we‟ve been in Bosnia and Hercegovina for a week. We‟ve had some
very warm encounters with people here and it‟s hard to tear ourselves away from beautiful,
tragic Mostar. I discover that I‟ve developed thick callouses on my knees from all the
kneeling in the back of the van. Likewise John‟s body is suffering from long hours driving.
We set off on the main road towards Stolac, past a large aluminium plant from the
Communist era which is still operating. It‟s a glorious day and people are out planting their
gardens in the six foot deep river soil. The properties have small vineyards, small gardens
with grapevines around the edge, and fruit trees with their trunks painted. When we turn off
the main road we see our first land mine warning sign, a white skull and crossbones on a red
background, with the word “mine” in four languages. We look down a valley which is a
rough patchwork of trees, cultivated soil, terracotta tile roofed houses and cypresses, with
Mostar in the distance, and snowy mountains behind.
The hills are rock and there‟s rubbish everywhere. Perhaps it‟s too dangerous to
collect the rubbish. Later we come to a little valley with winter sweet, plum blossom and
brown oak leaves. There‟s the odd old stone wall, and at Hodovo, new basic concrete block
houses. We pass through a flat area with blackened trees, beautifully cultivated soil under
small fruit trees, and sheep and lambs liberated from their barn. Then we‟re at Radimlja
Necropolis, a flat area beside the road with about fifty big rectangular tombstones, graves of
followers of the Bosnian church, from the 15th and 16th centuries. Some of the tombstones
have very distinctive carvings: a huge hand, medieval figures, and moving horses.
Stolac is in a gorge, and we see our first tethered cow since Romania, strips of
cultivated land, a loquat tree, and a flock of goats on a steep hill. The town was badly
damaged in the war but there are beautiful new mosques, a lovely old restored Turkish house
and three famous Ottoman bridges, some of which had mills incorporated into them. The
town is surrounded by steep rocky fire blackened hills.
We return to the country and drive past land mine signs for miles, through a rugged
landscape of grey stones, scrub, the odd patch of red soil with grass, and crested larks. We
pass a group of abandoned stone houses riddled with bullet holes. We‟re taking the back
road to Hutovo Blato National Park and it seemed like a good idea but the road‟s getting
narrower and there‟s virtually no traffic. The constant land mine signs make us a bit uneasy,
though it‟s only a problem if you walk across country. We wonder how they can graze sheep
here, and how they could clear the mines, since the ground is almost completely covered in
rocks. The only trees are stunted oaks and conifers, but there are lovely euphorbias. The
winding road is very narrow but the seal is excellent.
We‟re relieved to find ourselves looking down on a lake and wetland at last, and
descend steeply to a pretty valley with tunnel houses, orchards, vineyards, hives, vegetable
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gardens, houses, and pale brown reeds. On our way to the main road and the national park
we come across the Klepci Bridge, built in 1517 over the wide and fast flowing Bregava
River. It‟s very similar to the Stari Most, damaged in the war but still functional. The EU
has thoughtfully provided a seat and rubbish bin.
The Huoto Blavo National Park was created in 1995. It‟s very low key and at the
headquarters the director tells us in halting English that he and his staff are just back from a
visit to a national park in Spain. There‟s not much money for wages as it‟s not a priority for
the government, so they tend to lose their good staff overseas. He loves his job and lives
nearby with his family and parents, having returned after studying in Zagreb. He tells us to
look out for snakes as he‟s had one in his office. We go for a walk along the flood bank and
cross a military type bridge. We see three big egrets, and a black grass snake about eighteen
inches long with a big frog in its mouth. John pursues it with the camera and it turns around
and faces him. Driving out of the park later and looking down on the lake below, we see two
marsh harriers.
Back on the main road we head to Poticelj which we missed on our first day in
Hercegovina when we were so focussed on getting to Sarajevo in one piece. It‟s a very cute
little village clinging to a cliff, all grey stone, ancient mosques, Turkish bath houses, towers
and fortifications. It‟s been restored after being badly damaged in the war, and the people
have now returned. A few of the last deep pink pomegranates are clinging to the trees, and
we see a blue tit.
After crossing back into Croatia we drive straight back to our old riverside park in
Metkovic. Some men are lowering a boat into the water off the back of a lorry with a crane,
and the bats are at it again over the water. We subsequently learn from John‟s book that the
Serbs wanted to occupy everything on the east side of the Neretva River.
Next morning we drive across the river to Vidd where there‟s another smaller river,
the Norin. Between the two rivers there‟s an area of reeds broken up with canals, rectangles
of water, cultivated soil, grapevines and orchards. The reeds have been burnt off in a few
places. Nidd is a cute little village which we discover has a new archaeological museum
displaying artefacts from the ancient Greek and Roman city that was here. We walk up the
external staircase onto the roof from where there‟s a fantastic view of the surrounding area,
and down to a Roman mosaic below. A trade route used to pass by here, following the
Neretva River from the Adriatic, and up into the inner Balkans. We see two serious looking
men and two women with books and papers set off in one of the flat bottomed tourist boats in
the direction of the ancient site and we think they must be archaeologists.
We head back to the delta and Plotce on the coast. The river is a beautiful wide
turquoise strip bringing fertility and irrigation, as it must have done for thousands of years.
We see citrus orchards and little villages on the water‟s edge, and boats tied up to the
concrete strips which line the bank. The hillside is solid rock with cypress and pine. The
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horticulture is extensive and ingeniously managed, with orchards on strips of land between
long rectangular tongues of water and canals.
Plotce is a large port with little bays and villages. Steep grey stone covered slopes run
down to the sea, like natural rock gardens sheltering a multitude of shrubs and grasses.
Old Clothes and Cold Porridge
It‟s beginning to feel like we‟ve been wearing the same old clothes for years. John
doesn‟t find it a problem but for me it‟s just like wearing the same maternity garments for
months and longing to quit them. We‟re not eating cold porridge yet, our dinner is a
vegetable stew with white beans, macaroni and a tiny bit of bacon.
As we continue up the Dalmatian coast we pass the beautiful town of Gradac
alongside a turquoise sea, with blossom and new leaf everywhere. An animal similar to a
possum lies dead beside the road. We look out to the island of Hvar and the light makes
silvery patches on the water. Everywhere they are pruning the olives, taking out the tops.
We pass Drasnice, a town of empty houses, then deserted villages high up on the cliffs. Low
down on the water‟s edge there‟s new tourist friendly housing. We see a new vineyard just
like in New Zealand with neat rows of posts, then beautiful little towns of apartments,
beaches and marinas.
After Brela the hills become even more dramatic with a diagonal seam of grey rock,
and cliffs dropping to the road. Elaborate stone terraces line the steep hillsides, and wire
mesh structures on the cliffs keep falling rocks off the road. We‟re taking the old road that
hugs the coast rather than the motorway which runs inland. We drive down an avenue of
loquats, then later one of plane trees, and amazingly, we see tamarisk trees growing out of the
sand on the beach. Boats of all sizes are tied up all along the coast, plus windsurfers, and
classic wooden sailing ships for tourists.
At last we reach Split which has a population of two hundred thousand people, and a
port where ferries depart for the islands and Italy. We find the car park near the yacht club
which Daniela recommended to us, go exploring on foot, and discover a laundrette with
internet where we can take the laptop. After heavy rain overnight the next day is beautiful
and sunny. We do three loads of washing at the laundrette, talk on skype, and meet the
owners who are an Australian couple with Croatian connections. They‟ve come here from
New York to run their own businesses, and they are less than complimentary about the local
attitudes. They‟ve found the bureaucracy a nightmare and there‟s not much understanding of
customer service or how to encourage tourism. Later I go to the supermarket and I find every
woman there grim and unsmiling; or perhaps I just see them that way after hearing from the
laundrette owners that the locals can be harsh, suspicious and aggressive.
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We spend the afternoon in the van reading. I start “Crime and Punishment” and John
is engrossed in “The Fall of Yugoslavia” which describes a tangled web of psychopathic
leaders, dishonesty, treachery, easily led hotheads, heavily armed citizens, and a general lack
of discipline. He discovers that Hotel Bosna, where we stayed in Sarajevo, was the scene of
an abortive meeting of political leaders very early on in the conflict.
Next day we walk around the Roman Emperor Diocletian‟s vast retirement Palace,
built in 300 AD. A lot of it is still standing and over the centuries houses and little alleyways
have been built inside. It‟s all very Italian with cafes, beautiful oddly shaped squares, old
stone shops, arches, pillars, and houses of several stories looking down on it all. There are
excellent bookshops with lots of books in English. The fish market has shrimps, shellfish,
sprats, flatfish, and a monster multicoloured eel.
The streets of downtown Split are pristine with a large waterfront area set up for
tourists. At the market we buy a cooked chicken and some real potatoes to have for dinner.
Such luxury. I‟ve become a bit disgruntled about all the E numbers in the instant mash we‟ve
been buying
Leaving Split the next day we discover a huge LIDL supermarket and buy six jars of
our favourite cooked little potatoes. The crab apple is in blossom, as is the elm, and there are
gorgeous public beds of ranunculus, plus white hyacinths with blue pansies, and blue
hyacinths with polyanthus. We drive to Trogir, a little town on an island, connected by
bridges to the mainland and peninsula. The Dalmatian coast has plenty of these little semi
island towns. It‟s very Italian, like being on the set of “Romeo and Juliet”. We have a look
at the lovely cathedral which has 13th century sculptures at the entrance - Adam and Eve in
fig leaves.
Next day we push north again past olives, dark red soil, big broad beans in flower,
terraced hillsides and gnarled grapevines. We see marinas full of expensive yachts, little
turquoise bays with tiny boats, beautiful small pines, little islands, and whole hillsides
ravaged by fires. Lots of the stone walls are very wide and have almost a ramp of stone on
each side. We spend a very windy night parked beside the sea at Sibenik where the boats are
trying to break free from their moorings. We walk around the picturesque medieval walled
town then admire St James Cathedral from the outside.
John has just finished “Into the Blue” by Tony Horwitz about his journey with another
chap retracing Captain Cook‟s explorations. We see parallels with our own voyage. We stop
to take on water and food, do repairs to our craft, hope the natives are friendly, and remark on
the similarities between people everywhere. But we know we haven‟t given anyone a disease
as we haven‟t been sick once.
We leave the coast and head inland to visit the Krka National Park, to see Skradinski
Buk, a seventeen step series of cascades, which is viewed from a boardwalk. The water is
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running high after all the rain and it‟s a spectacular mix of rushing water, moss, trees, pools
and little waterfalls, all seen at close range. A power station was built here in 1895 and the
whole place is strictly protected because the travertines (creamy coloured calcium carbonate
deposits) are very easily damaged. Some of them are a hundred and twenty five thousand
years old! There are rare plants as well as wolves, badgers, turtles, frogs, snakes, fish and
birds. We see swallows and martins and meet a charming couple from Seattle and have a
long talk with them. He makes an analogy between the Balkans and the USA and says that
even now the south is not totally reconciled with the north. They tell us that the clocks have
gone forward an hour. It‟s a shock to realise that it‟s six months since the clocks went back
in Krakow.
Back on the coast we pass camping grounds and holiday apartments. We stop at
Sukosan on the outskirts of Zadar and park by the sea near the marina. John fits a new blade
to the windscreen wiper.
Next day we go into Zadar and discover what a lovely city it is. The old part has
water on three sides, a tongue of land where cruise ships, ferries to the many nearby islands,
and a myriad of little boats are tied up. It‟s walled, with medieval churches, including the
circular St Donat‟s which was built in the 9th century. In the middle of the town are the ruins
of the Roman forum. The best thing is a wide promenade along the sea front, where every
fifty feet or so there‟s a ladder down into deep water. It must be an amazing place to swim.
Where the promenade forms a right angle there are two spectacular works of art, the Sea
Organ and the Monument to the Sun. The Sea Organ is underneath wide steps leading
seductively from the promenade to the sea, and its haunting sounds emerge from holes
resembling whale blowholes on the promenade. The energy of the swell and waves creates
the sound through underwater pipes. The Monument to the Sun is a circle of light seventy
feet in diameter embedded in the promenade, with ten thousand tiny light bulbs which
operate from solar power. At night it lights up in wonderful patterns.
The sea is flat and glassy out to the islands in the distance. We find an excellent
bookshop and John buys “The Death of Yugoslavia” by Laura Silber and Allan Little. We go
to the movies and see “Slumdog Millionaire”, exciting, but somehow unsatisfying. I‟m
reading “Three Men in a Boat” by Jerome K Jerome, light relief from the sense of unease we
feel in Croatia.
The Cypresses of Opatija
We head inland from Zadar, and cross from the peninsula back to the mainland.
We‟re close to the Paklenica National Park but decide not to visit it. We read about special
stones (“mirila” meaning measures) you can see there, which are memorials for deceased
people. From the 17th to the 20th centuries, people carrying a corpse to the cemetery (through
steep rocky mountains) were allowed to stop only once for a rest to put the body down.
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Stones were placed at the head and the feet, giving the measure of the person, with paving
later filling the space. The stones were a more important memorial than the grave.
It‟s flat by the coast with stunted oaks, hawthorn in flower, and olives. Beautiful pear
trees are covered in blossom, and there are hens everywhere. Black clad old ladies with head
scarves are out with wheelbarrows, and the wild asparagus harvest is on. To the west behind
the azure sea the peninsula is bare and low, and of a grey so pale that it looks like sand dunes.
At Lisarica we stop to get a closer look at a rough circle a hundred and twenty feet across,
just offshore. The water appears to be boiling, and as we watch, it changes, and smaller
circles appear. It seems to be a feeding frenzy of small fish. The water‟s crystal clear at the
edge and we see shoals of little fish, a big piper and lots of sea urchins. Then we hear a very
distinctive bird singing from a macrocarpa treetop. It‟s like a blackbird with a white breast
but behaving very unlike one. I think it‟s a ring ouzel. We also see two red admiral
butterflies and a big butterfly whose wings make a noise as they touch.
Tiny coves a couple of hundred feet wide with one or two houses and little boats tied
up are a feature of this stretch of coast. The hillside is solid rock with no vegetation except
the odd stunted tree. The prevailing wind here is called the Bura, flowing down the valleys
from snowy mountains inland and reaching extremely high speeds at times. The islands of
Pag and Novalia are a white moonscape to the west. We see a blue rock thrush, now one of
my favourite birds, with their iridescent blue feathers and long beak.
We stop for lunch on the side of the road where we‟re on top of the world with half
the horizon taken up with sea and the pale grey of the islands, and the other half stony hills.
The people here must have been compulsive wall builders because for miles there have been
high stone walls, a maze of them marking off tiny areas with no crop or stock. Perhaps the
people who farmed here have left. We‟ve started seeing a few campers from Austria, Italy
and Germany, travelling south. Many of the camping grounds open today, the 1st of April.
At Bakarac the sea is deep and there are fantastic cantilevered diving boards a hundred feet
high.
At large and industrial Rijeka we take the motorway bypass and all is going well until
we come to a tunnel which is closed and we have to go on a tricky and unsignposted detour
through the city, always stressful. We arrive at Opatija exhausted and park on the wharf near
the yacht club and some cafes. It‟s a very formal place and we feel conspicuous and
uncomfortable but we‟re too tired to find anywhere else to spend the night. Opatija is a
beautiful town of 19th century Austrian buildings and huge old trees especially cypress and
other conifers. The magnolias are flowering and there‟s new leaf on the deciduous trees. A
walkway follows the water‟s edge for miles with steep steps up to the town streets every so
often. Ladders for swimmers lead down to the sea, and flat rocks and concrete platforms
beside deep water look great for diving. The tall and heavily ornamented holiday villas of
wealthy 19th century Austrians are now hotels and holiday apartments. It has a totally
different feel from anywhere else in Croatia, and Austrians are still the main tourists. I start
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“David Copperfield”. This trip has been the best opportunity for reading that we‟ve had for
years.
We‟re now at the start of the Istrian peninsula which has an Austrian, Italian and
Yugoslavian history, but is now part of Croatia. As we head south the beautiful houses and
trees continue for a few miles. It‟s raining and the soil is a rich red with creamy rock coming
through. From high up we look down on the sea and islands, and back towards Rijeka. At
Plomin we pass a massive coal fired power station, a legacy of the Communist era, with a
tiny medieval village on the hillside above it. The tall red and white chimney in the valley
seems to follow us for miles.
As we approach Pula the countryside is almost English with hedgerows, fields,
patches of oak (some of it coppiced), and hawthorn in blossom. We navigate our way
through the town and park on the water‟s edge, with a road and railway line behind us, and
behind that, beautiful crumbling 19th century houses several stories high, all with a round
tower in the front. Various little boats are tied up in front of us and men come and go looking
at them. In the evening, young people glide across the glassy water in rowing sculls. On two
sides of the sea there are low wooded hills, and directly in front of us half a mile away is a
massive shipyard which seems to operate twenty four hours a day. Once a day, a train loaded
with steel passes us on its way to the shipyard. Close by is the old town of Pula dominated
by the huge Roman amphitheatre which was used for gladiator spectacles from the 1st to the
5th centuries AD, holding twenty thousand spectators. The Venetians subsequently used it as
a stone quarry to build other structures. The outer walls are almost completely preserved and
it dominates the skyline. It‟s now used for opera, theatre, rock concerts and a film festival.
Parts of the movie “Titus” were filmed inside it.
We walk up the hill in the centre of town to the Venetian castle and get a great view
in all directions, then visit the old Roman forum where there‟s a tiny intact Temple of
Augustus. Various Roman triumphal arches adorn the place as well. Pula was the base for
the Austro-Hungarian empire with an arsenal built here in 1856. The Italians had possession
of it in 1918, it was heavily bombed by the Allies in WW2, and after the Allies handed it to
Yugoslavia in 1947, it was industrialised by Tito. The Roman presence is still very strong in
spite of all this. The streets have two signs, one in Croatian and one in Italian. James Joyce
taught English here in the winter of 1904-1905 and apparently described Pula as “Siberia by
the sea”. There‟s a lovely statue of him.
Our synthetic blankets, bought in Poland in the chill of autumn, are now overdue for a
wash. They can‟t go in a drier so we need to wash them at a camping ground and hang them
on a line. We drive to Camping Stoja on the peninsula near Pula. It‟s a grand place with a
security guard on the gate. Today is the first day they‟re open for the new season, but they
tell us that they don‟t open the laundry for another month! We can‟t believe it. We drive
past a cemetery densely packed with huge cypresses and stop for coffee beside a beach. Then
we head up the west coast, knowing that one of the many camping grounds will surely have a
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washing machine. It‟s all stone walls and pasture, and some of the walls have grass growing
on the top like in Wales. The jays are busy. We stop at another camping ground at Rovinj,
part of a chain, large and fancy, with two laundries. We buy tokens for the laundry then find
a nice place to park. The first task is to get the blankets into the machine. In the first laundry
we can‟t get the washing machine to work, and when John gets the battery charger to check
the power, there is none. So we go to the other laundry. Same story. Back to the office
where they tell us the electrician will be in at six tonight to fix the problem. We can‟t see the
point in paying nineteen Euros a night and not be able to do the washing so we get our money
back and check out. They‟re quite nice about it.
Down the road we come across Camp Oaza run by a lovely Croatian woman Stenka,
and Gerhard her Austrian partner (“I‟m the lover boy, she‟s the boss”). She will wash the
blankets for us as there‟s no camp washing machine, and they have free wireless. We‟re
thrilled, and they are very friendly as well. They aren‟t connected to the power system but
turn on a diesel generator for the washing machine, use solar panels, and have gas hot water.
It‟s very relaxing apart from the model car Grand Prix in the next door field. Again it rains
heavily in the night leaving everything bright and wet in the morning. A little white cat
comes to visit us for chicken, bread and cornflakes. We hear pheasants.
We have to visit Rovinj, the most perfect of the coastal Istrian towns. The old part is
on a tiny peninsula, and seen from across the water, the centrepiece is St Euphemia‟s
Cathedral with its stunning tower. We climb the Cathedral tower on a series of glorified old
timber ladders and get a spectacular view. We notice that the locals are all carrying bunches
of olive sprigs as it‟s the Sunday before Easter. The newer part of town is full of beds of
pansies and there are also lovely beds of blue and pink forget-me-nots.
The shutters on the houses in Istria are intriguing, the perfect invention to keep out the
sun while letting in the breeze, and romantic into the bargain. They consist of thin wooden
louvers which can be tilted in various ways depending on the direction of the wind and sun,
all flung open now, but essential in the summer heat.
After two nights we leave the camp with our clean blankets and go to the Rovinj
laundry to get the rest of the washing done. We park beside the sea and read in the sun until
it‟s time to collect it, then head north on the motorway towards Lipica in Slovenia and the
Lipizzaner horses.
Maestoso and Favory
It‟s twenty five degrees as we leave Rovinj and cross the four thousand foot long
Mirna bridge, over a lush farmed valley with a canal running through it. Winter storage for
caravans and boats is big business here with hundreds parked on fields. On the road we see a
camper from Finland. We stop at Buje to send postcards, spend our last kuna at the
supermarket, and get our passports and van documents ready for the border crossing which
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turns out to be very cruisy as they just stamp our passports. We‟re now back in the EU. We
look up the Slovenian words for hello, please, thank you and goodbye and discover that
they‟re the same as in Croatian. There‟s a steady stream of campers from Italy and Germany
coming towards us. We get out our Greek Euros and head north on the motorway through
tunnels and across viaducts, finally stopping for the night at a truck stop before the turn off to
Divaca. We‟re not impressed to discover that we have to pay thirty five Euros to use the
Slovenian motorway system for six months, and it‟s not possible to buy a vignette for a
shorter time. It stays light till after seven.
It‟s a relief to be out of Croatia with its recent and oppressive bloody history. John‟s
bought a third book about the troubles, “They Would Never Hurt a Fly” by Slavenka
Drakulic, covering the war crimes. Slovenia managed to extricate itself from Yugoslavia in
1991 with a ten day war and only sixty people dead, quickly became a democracy, then
joined the UN in 1992 and the EU in 2004.
Next morning we drive to Lipica (diminuitive of lipa which is Slovenian for lime tree)
to the original Lipizzaner horse stud which was established in 1580 by the Austrian
Habsburgs. We drive in through beautiful rolling fields and trees, and come to a huge car
park, hotel, casino, spa, pool and golf course. They‟ve diversified with activities to entertain
non horsey people. We hear woodpeckers tapping and discover that we‟re just in time to
watch the two hour training session which is held in a large indoor arena with tiered seating.
To a soundtrack of instrumental Elton John and Strauss waltzes, five men and one
woman on white horses work out in front of a small audience for forty five minutes. The
horses are all stallions, four have double bridles and two have snaffles with dropped
nosebands. They prance and float, mainly at a sitting trot, the riders‟ backsides never moving
from the saddle. The concentration is intense as they glide past each other without a break in
their stride, passaging across and doing tiny circles. Sugar lumps and pats are dished out
liberally. It‟s a wonderful sight. The horses are very keen to get to the exit when the lesson
is over, and we head outside to watch twenty or so mares and foals which have been let out of
the barn. The foals are all black and quite plain, and the mares are full bodied, white and
curvaceous. A very obstreperous mare is on the lunging rein, going in tight circles. We chat
with a young couple from Sydney who are here for a week‟s riding holiday with a lesson
morning and afternoon. They tell us that it‟s very challenging and humbling because with the
horses being so superbly trained, they can never be blamed when things go wrong. When the
rider does the right thing in the correct way, the horse will instantly do what is required. So
any failure is the rider‟s. Such a lesson in taking responsibility sounds cheaper and more fun
than therapy!
We return to the arena and watch another forty five minutes of training, this time
with less experienced riders plus some experts. One canters sideways then turns on a
sixpence. One rider dismounts, then using the reins held beside the saddle, and the whip, gets
the horse to dance on its hind legs.
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Later we go on a tour with a guide who has excellent English and a formidable grasp
of the history and deeper concepts of the Lipizzaner training. He tells us that there are
Lipizzaner stud farms in several other countries including the Czech Republic, Austria and
Romania. During various wars over the centuries, the horses have been evacuated to safe
locations. There were six original stallions: Pluto, Conversano, Neapolitano, Maestoso,
Favory and Siglavy, whose bloodlines are still going, and sixteen families of mares. The stud
receives twenty five percent of its funding from the government and generates the rest of its
money from revenue; hence the casino which has been controversial. The soil is limestone
and poor, and consequently the foals grow quite slowly in spite of the fourteen litres of milk
each mare produces per day. They are handled from birth, weaned at six months, and the
colts and fillies are separated at one year. They aren‟t broken in until they are three and a
half or four. The foals are born black or brown, and gradually lose their pigment to become
white. Some of the stallions show a natural propensity to perform certain movements, and
there are culls at four, five and six years, when the ones not good enough to do advanced
training are gelded.
We visit some of the stallions in their barn, and close up they are gorgeously rounded,
with black skin under their white coats. The guide tells us they have excellent hearing and
can recognise the step of their trainer at six hundred feet. He also tells us that the farrier
gives the horses a pedicure and I‟m impressed at his ability to make a centuries old practice
sound modern.
We watch the performance back in the arena. First of all four horses come in to the
“Cancan”, at a trot and extended trot, weaving in and out, their riders dressed in top hats and
long green coats looking straight out of Dickens. Next they do a collected canter to a Strauss
waltz. Then two very fine horses come in for a Pas de Deux at a very collected canter,
changing the lead on every second stride then every stride. Next is a carriage with two
beautifully matched horses at a trot making lovely patterns with the carriage wheels in the
freshly raked sand. They are wonderfully controlled and elegant. Finally there are three
stallions, two led by two men, and one by a woman. They perform several different
movements, like lifting their front legs high and stretching them out, high kicks with their
hind legs, rearing, and bouncing on their hind legs. It‟s fantastic.
I buy a beautiful book written and photographed by the children of the local primary
school to commemorate the visit of Queen Elizabeth II in October 2008. She was presented
with a stallion, Favory Canissa XXII, and she left him there for them to train and look after.
The book is full of photographs of the horses, the children‟s impressions of the Queen‟s visit,
some lovely horse drawings, and romantic poetry about the Lipizzaners. Clearly they are
idealised and adored as a national treasure for Slovenia.
We head back to the motorway through karst country, cultivated valleys and wooded
hills, before turning off to the west towards Italy. The new leaf in the distance is screaming
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lime green, contrasting with the whitest blossom. The grass is deep and the countryside is
unfenced, with lots of little cultivated terraces.
We park for the night at a motorway rest area at Vogrska alongside what seems like a
mini EU of lorries. They come and go all night including one full of baaing sheep. The
drivers are very diligent and attend to maintenance when they arrive, then always run their
engines for ten minutes before they leave. We‟re joined by pied wagtails in the car park.
Next morning we drive across the wide turquoise river Isonzo and enter Italy with no
formalities at all.
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Chapter 11 Italy, Austria, Switzerland, France
8 April – 1 May 2009
Edelweiss
We set off to the west, on a mission to get up into the Dolomites for the night, with
Daniela‟s highlighted map showing the best spots. In Lucinico we see a huge mimosa tree
dripping with yellow flowers then the cherry Kanzan covered in heavy blossom. At Mossa
there‟s a traditional British pub called Mr Jack Ale House complete with a painted sign. It‟s
flat agricultural land with grapevines growing out of shingle, supported on rigid fences. The
sky is grey and smoggy, and there are factories for miles. We stop at LIDL and Eurospar,
thrilled to be back in Italian supermarkets, make coffee in the car park and devour focaccia
with onion, and croissant with prosciutto. On the road again we see swallows by the wide
braided Tagliamento River. This area is very developed with industry, a huge Electrolux
factory, malls, and lots of traffic. We spot a very rare sight in Italy, the New Punjabi Indian
Restaurant.
At Veneto Vittorio we drive along an avenue of limes with bright green spring leaves.
Beyond the town it‟s all mountains, forests and castles. We stop at gorgeous old Serraville
and I text Zoe in Sydney and ask her to look up the weather forecast. She texts back such
good news: sun for the next two days! In Serraville the buildings all seem to be from the 15th
and 16th centuries as apparently there has been no demolition. It‟s beautiful, with many
buildings decorated with pictures and words.
Back on the road as we look north we see snowy mountains, and the road becomes
steeper as we follow a river. A raven flies past, then a Moslem woman in a dressing gown
and headscarf is hanging out her washing, and she gives us a lovely smile when we wave to
her. The houses have wooden upper stories and verandahs with window boxes. The railway
line snakes through tunnels, people have huge stacks of firewood, and men are out training on
their bikes, always a common sight in Italy. We come to the braided river Piave, with forest
on the flats, and see some seriously high mountains peeping through on our right, about eight
thousand feet according to the map. We‟re astonished to see factories way out here in the
mountains.
We head west towards Cortina d‟Ampezzo, on a winding narrow road. Snow basins
alternate with patches of conifer forest, with towns dotted right through on a narrow strip
between the mountains. Even though we‟re surrounded by snow it‟s not cold. In Vado
Cadore two policemen stand beside a police car wearing Mussolini hats, one holding an
automatic weapon across his chest. It‟s not a good look. In San Vito di Cadore the churches
and houses have wooden shingle roofs. Mt Antelao at ten thousand feet has abrupt cliffs
from halfway all the way to the summit. Amazingly some of the rock here is pink. The snow
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drifts by the road are two feet deep now. We arrive at Cortina d‟Ampezzo which held the
Winter Olympics in 1956 and still has the ski jump to prove it. My head is full of lonely
goatherds, edelweiss and val-deri val-dera!
We follow the signs thorough the town to a large car park where we park the van
beside piles of snow seven feet deep. Other campers turn up for the night and some mothers
bring their children to the car park for bike riding lessons. A couple of helicopters come and
go, and when we wake up in the morning an army lorry is unloading soldiers with cross
country skiing gear.
It‟s a gloriously sunny day as we set off on a twenty mile scenic drive along a road
which is free of snow but lined with snow banks four feet high. Thin yellow and black poles
ten feet tall line the road on both sides and we work out that they‟re marker poles for when
the snow is very deep. Every few miles there are old buildings which look like roadmen‟s
houses from a past era.
We‟re surrounded by the highest mountains, and close by the road, spruce trees. At
Carbonin there‟s an elegant hotel several stories high, always a surprise to us Kiwis in such a
remote place. We‟re driving in a circle around Monte Cristallo whose summit is over ten
thousand feet. We can see where trees have been uprooted and broken by snow, and the
avalanche paths have big protective fences. We drive on a gradient of twelve per cent in and
out of mist past mountain bluffs of pink rock and beautiful little semi frozen streams. Then
we enter a wide valley with a groomed cross country ski track. The snow is very deep all
around but the road is perfect. A small building has four feet of snow on the roof like thatch.
At Misurina the frozen lake is covered in snow and a pair of ducks is sleeping standing up.
As we drive towards a particularly spectacular peak it feels like we‟re in a mountain force
field, such is the power of the place.
After we go over Tre Croce Passe we‟re amazed to drive under a chairlift carrying
skiers across the road.
Back at Cortina d‟Ampezzo we turn west to Passo di Falzarego, and everything is
thawing in the sun. We stop at a tiny military chapel made of golden wood with columns in a
Classical style. The mountains are breathtaking, some so steep that the top half has no snow,
just sheer pink rock cliffs. We‟re amazed to see cable cars operating across vast areas.
When we reach a height of six thousand feet everything except the road is covered in
snow four feet deep. Spruce and larch trees are dotted around, and we hear blackbirds
singing. We drive through a tunnel in an area where the snow plough has blown the snow on
each side of the road to a height of eight feet. The leg of a small deer lies beside the road.
Skiers are flying past and we‟re surprised to see them ski to the side of the road, take off their
skis, walk across, then put their skis on and disappear. The ski runs seem to all link up and
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go for miles. The snow is beautifully groomed, there are no queues, and even tiny children
are skiing. It looks like everyone‟s having a wonderful spring day out in the snow.
At eight thousand feet we see small avalanches and fencing higher up to catch the big
ones. Protective tunnels cover the road at the most dangerous spots. We pass rock bluffs that
must be seven thousand feet high, then descend steeply through endless hairpins on a gradient
of thirteen per cent. Piles of timber lie neatly stacked beside the road. We see fences but no
animals, and an old stock barn with mucked out manure and straw piled outside. At Arraba
there are beautiful hotels with wooden balconies and steep roofs, little log cabins, and flowers
painted on the walls of some of the buildings. We also notice lots of little wooden huts with
no windows and wonder if the shepherds stay in them in the summer. Campers are parked at
some skifields and we also see snow mobiles towing stretchers. It‟s hard to get used to
driving along the road with people racing alongside us on skis.
We come to a stretch of road where every hairpin is numbered, counting down from
twenty two. There‟s hardly any traffic even though it‟s the Thursday before Easter. We turn
off towards Ortisei where rock cliffs three thousand feet high tower above us on both sides.
We get into first gear and see dandelions and pink heather, then three goats sitting in the sun.
We‟re in an area where there are big wood carvings for sale, old farm houses on high
meadows, ravens, and at Ortisei a cheese factory with a shop and a milk museum. There‟s a
pervasive smell of cow manure. Lower down there are intensive vineyards, then new willow
leaf, blossom and espaliered fruit trees.
Three Countries In One Day
It‟s been a massive day‟s driving through the most unbelievable scenery and we‟re
hoping to make it into Austria for the night. On the motorway towards the Brenner Pass there
are miles of lorries but it‟s very fast. We‟re in the Easter traffic, with lots of campers. There
are acres of hydroponic strawberries, factories, big wooden stock barns, tiny churches with
tall steeples, small castles, waterfalls, and a train. We drive straight across the border at
Brenner Pass with no formalities. On the other side it‟s just the same with high meadows,
houses, forest and Scots pine. We make it all the way to a motorway rest area on the edge of
Innsbruck. It‟s frenetically busy with cars from Germany, Italy and Austria, but we have a
very peaceful night parked by the fence, after a shower at the petrol station. The view north
through the windscreen is the spectacular mountain range called Karlwendelgebirge.
John finishes his book about the war crimes associated with the 1990s war in the
former Yugoslavia. The punch line is that the people currently awaiting trial on war crimes
at the court in the Hague, from Croatia, Serbia, and Bosnia, get on famously. They are proud
of how harmoniously they live, even down to having ethnic food nights where they sample
each other‟s cuisine. As the author Slavenka Drakulic asks, what was the war all about?
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Next morning we drive into Innsbruck and park on the street outside the Hofgarten,
the old gardens. We‟re greeted by birdsong. The city is in a fantastic location, surrounded by
high snowy mountains with frozen streams in gullies. We walk into the town which has
many gorgeous old buildings and narrow lanes. The souvenir shops are full of cuckoo
clocks, lederhosen and Tyrolean felt hats, and the European tourists we see are very elegant
and relaxed. It‟s an orderly society. We tell ourselves we‟re here to relax, not sightsee. We
have a salad for dinner on a park bench in the gardens, and people smile at us as they walk
past.
We walk into town next day and buy a motorway vignette to get us to Switzerland.
We decide to try to get to France in one day‟s drive starting early Easter Sunday. The
weather is glorious and we take the Nordkettenbahnen, a futuristic cable car, to a high
plateau, and Hungerburg, a suburb of beautiful old carved wooden houses with big balconies.
We love the panoramic view over Innsbruck, the river and the mountains. Back down at the
cable car station we see two water pipits at the edge of the river.
As it‟s the Saturday night before Easter Sunday, church bells chime all over the place.
They start up again at five forty in the morning which is good for us, as we leave just after
seven on our big push northwest into France. We‟re looking forward to the rural peace and
familiarity of France after so much excitement and novelty over the last eight months.
We head west up a wide flat valley, past horse farms with big barns and post and rail
fences. The river is hard up against the hills to the north, and to the south flat rich farm land
slopes gently up to wooded hills with few houses, then steep snow covered mountains. We
see lovely old white churches with tall wooden spires and small black creosoted barns with
big plastic covered hay bales outside. We can see the old road clinging to the cliff on arches
made of stone. CCTV cameras observe the motorway everywhere. The rest areas are very
fancy with nice restaurants, and we can see that a bit of money‟s being spent in Austria
compared with most of the other countries we‟ve visited. We find the endless tunnels quite
disorienting and nauseating and have to resort to a bag of crisps. We pay to go through the
nine mile long Arlberg Tunnel which take us through the pass. Very high pastures are
interspersed with patches of forest and John explains to me the concept of transhumance,
where stock is grazed on high pastures during the summer then returned to the lowlands in
winter. I read later that one quarter of Austria‟s farm land is alpine pasture used in this way.
We‟re seeing a lot of German cars, big factories, then stacks of aluminium ingots
three feet long. By the time we get to Bregenz the country has flattened out and there are no
mountains, just people having picnics, magnolias, primroses, and silver birch, and a field of
pretty cows that look like Jerseys.
At the Swiss border a guard dressed in elegant pale khaki microfleece doesn‟t even
open our passports. We pay thirty Euros to use the Swiss motorways for a year and then
we‟re off again. We see a big redwood tree then a copper beech. It‟s all huge trees, steep
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hills, sheep and horses. I spot three birds of prey above a forest then a field of leeks, and cute
three storied houses. We‟re very close to Lake Constance in Germany where we had a swim
at the end of the summer. It‟s all so immaculate with not a weed to be seen in the fields.
We drive past huge apartment blocks on the edge of Zurich, and at Basel massive
chemical plants and a vast Carlsberg factory. We get lost at this point and go round in
circles, there‟s no obvious border, and suddenly we discover that we‟re in France. We stop
and ask some people for directions and they show us the way, but the road‟s closed. We
follow the deviation and eventually end up on the road to Belfort. It‟s perfectly neat and
floral in France with no fences, no traffic, rolling countryside of pasture, pale ploughed soil,
coppiced trees, and wild flowers. A buzzard flies right over the top of us. Some of the
houses are timber framed, and there‟s a timber framed barn. We drive down an avenue of
plane trees planted by Napoleon and I realise that we‟re back in the territory that Dickens
described as interminable avenues and dreary plains. It‟s agribusiness, with huge farms, and
very dry. We end up in the cute little town of Altkirch in a big empty supermarket car park.
I start “Oliver Twist”.
Frittata Sur Loire
Our parking spot faces a canal, with a road and railway line beyond that, and there are
constant trains. At nine, when we‟re in bed, a van pulls up beside us and someone shines a
torch in the front windows, then we hear them talking into a phone or radio and laughing,
then they drive away. We assume it‟s the police or a security guard but we‟re honestly
beyond caring, and past experience has taught us to feel relaxed in France. We have a
peaceful night‟s sleep.
I‟ve been sneezing for the last couple of days and it dawns on me that it‟s hay fever
with so much pollen around. Fortunately we‟ve brought a good supply of antihistamine from
Britain. It‟s a novelty to open the first aid kit which we‟ve hardly touched.
Next morning we set off in fog down an avenue of Norway maples with chartreuse
coloured new leaf. A grey heron flies over. There are ploughed fields, spring crops, big
patches of deciduous forest, and perfect little towns of timber framed houses painted pink, red
and blue, some with barns attached. To complete this idyllic rural scene, the cows are red,
white and bonny, and carrion crows cruise around. At Belfort we‟re dazzled by colourful
displays of tulips, pansies and poppies. We‟re using the 1987 Michelin Road Atlas of France
which we bought at a car boot sale in Surrey, so the road numbers don‟t always match up, but
it has fantastic detail, for example all the little forests are named. We‟re driving alongside the
Rhone to Rhine Canal. It‟s raining and there are wild flowers, old fences with the posts made
from rough tree trunks, and good old New Zealand Taranaki gates. Everywhere there are
vast stockpiles of firewood. We travel through coppiced beech forest with snowdrops and
stacks of firewood. We‟ve come to find Ronchamp and the Chapelle Notre-Dame-du-Haut,
sitting on a hill, a place of pilgrimage and churches for centuries.
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The site has been privately owned since the late 18th century, and when the chapel
was badly damaged during WW2, it was decided to engage Le Corbusier the architect to
design a new one, with a futuristic theme. It was completed in 1955. It‟s a very simple
design made almost entirely out of white concrete, with gently curving lines, a roof similar to
a mushroom, and tiny square windows designed to let light in from all directions. It‟s foggy,
so there‟s no sunlight, but lots of atmosphere. A little statue of the Virgin Mary from a
previous chapel is positioned high up in a window, visible from inside and out, and there‟s an
outside pulpit with a large area for the congregation to gather. It‟s a fascinating Modernist
statement designed by an atheist to be a place of peace, meditation and reconciliation.
European larch, Norway maples and chestnuts cluster around in a lovely rural setting. In the
car park we talk to a French family in a camper, Mum, two teenagers and three dogs.
We head off again and the soil is pink. We see calves, big lambs, a hovering kestrel,
and road kill consisting of a hedgehog and a red legged partridge. Yellow flowered oxlips
are everywhere plus Scots pine. Then we know we‟re back in France because we see the
very characteristic big stand of spindly poplars in rows, very picturesque.
Taking the turn off to Thivet, we cross the railway line and stop beside the Marne
River and Canal. The two storied brick lock keeper‟s house is dated 1873. We make tea and
have French bread rolls with slices of our long Italian salami, and the last of the quince
mostarda di Venezia. It‟s wonderful to be back in France with the van still going strong. It‟s
picturesque, familiar and relaxing, almost as easy as being back in Britain. It‟s incredible to
think that a few years back France seemed utterly foreign and exotic to us.
We spend the night at Bar sur Aube, a peaceful little town, in a neat landscaped car
park with trees, and choruses of birdsong at dawn and dusk. I go for a walk and see the
beautiful market hall, plus a dog beauty parlour, “Chien d‟Aujourd‟hui” (Today‟s Dog), with
a list of prices for different breeds.
Next day we end up driving through the middle of Troyes where there are endless
timber framed buildings, all different, and wonderful beds of tulips, forget-me-nots,
polyanthus and pansies.
We stop for the night at Chateuneuf sur Loire and park on the cobbled levee which
runs for about half a mile beside the river Loire. Above the levee is a sloping flood bank with
marks showing the height of the floods of 1790, 1825, 1846, and a memorial to the bargees
who died in the 1846 flood. The river is what I imagine the Mississippi must be like, very
wide and flowing slowly, with swallows, starlings and black headed gulls.
When I go for a walk along the wide riverside path, under chestnut trees and beside
wild violets and white daffodils, I hear a woodpecker and a nuthatch. Slender sailing boats
are tied up, and the ducks and butterflies are busy. The town is dripping with lilac and
wisteria. It‟s very easy to see why people love France. It‟s so beautiful and empty.
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For dinner I make Frittata sur Loire. First sauté onion, garlic, cooked potatoes and
bacon. Season with salt, pepper and dried thyme, then break four eggs into the pan. Cover
and cook on a low heat until the eggs are just set. It goes nicely with an Alsace
Gewurtztraminer out of our charity shop wine glasses which have survived the trip wrapped
in charity shop damask napkins.
Next morning we cross the river and pass a house with a mark on the wall showing
the height of the notorious 1846 flood. Carrots and potatoes are planted in the fine fertile
river soil. We see Kanzan flowering cherries and the rhododendron Christmas Cheer. The
terrain has been flat for a few days with numerous cycle paths.
As we drive through a large area of forest which includes an exclusive hunting estate
with private roads and signs we see a dead rabbit, the first since leaving England. There‟s a
large brick house with extensive outbuildings and an old brick and tile works which is still
operating, along with a 19th century forge with black smoke pouring from the chimney. In
Ligny-le-Ribault we see timber framed buildings and tiny old brick cottages on large
sections, each with its own well in the front lawn. The houses are beautiful, some with a strip
of coloured tiles to give them an extra finish. In the forest the signs are entertaining.
“Risques de traversees des grands animaux” (Risk of large animals crossing), “Private
property you might get hit by a bullet”, and “Attention animaux en liberte” with a picture of a
deer and a wild pig.
We arrive in Chambord where the Chateau dates from 1537. Leonardo da Vinci had a
hand in its design and after it was completed in 1685 the French kings lived there. The road
goes through oaks, white poplars, spruce, hawthorn, hazel, and Lawson cypress. We notice
pig rooting in the bracken. The castle is very ornate, a creamy colour with a grey roof and
about thirty little towers. A couple of horses are grazing in a field outside, and there‟s a small
settlement of workers‟ cottages with lilac and apple blossom.
As we enter more beautiful forest we see pied wagtails. A convoy of police cars
passes us going the other way, and in Huisseau sur Cosson children are lined up on the
roadside like they‟re awaiting the arrival of an important person. John gives them the Royal
wave as we slowly drive past. I ask them what‟s going on and they tell us a cycle race is
coming through. This is France after all. We go past more beautiful houses and gardens and
realise that we haven‟t seen one unfinished house in France, and hardly a new one.
People are lined up all along our route waiting to see the cyclists. We stop in Vineuil
as a dozen gendarmes and officials on motorbikes, then sponsors and more officials in cars
come through. The atmosphere is electric. Then about a hundred cyclists swish past in a
tight bunch. All the locals clap. John takes a movie. Finally more gendarmes, cars with
spare bikes on top and ambulances roar past.
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When we get to Blois (the guidebook helpfully suggests “blwah”) we manage to get
online with our laptop. The French seem to be exceptionally security conscious and there are
virtually no unsecured networks for us to tap into. There‟s a castle, timber framed buildings,
and lots of campers. We park beside the river where there‟s an island just offshore, a
gathering place for the black headed gulls. John feeds the ducks. At dusk bats fly around,
and I see a beaver heading downstream. There are lots of pied wagtails, swallows, moorhens,
starlings and blackbirds.
Next day John stays in the van reading and I go into town and get a haircut from a
lovely woman who tells me that because she owns the salon she can never take a holiday. I
go back to the van for lunch and we read the English papers then I head back into town and
buy three dresses and some perfume. It feels like my feral phase is drawing to a close.
For dinner we have white asparagus tips, potatoes, onions, and pate de campagne with
fresh bread. In the evening there‟s a hatch of flies, and John feeds the same pair of ducks
again. The drake always waits for the duck to get the bread first. I wonder if this is a
metaphor for French males. A large fish rises.
My bar of delicious French cooking chocolate has a nutrition section on the packet
suggesting that before you eat the decadent chocolate dessert you are about to make, you
should have a light meal rich in vegetables, for example grated carrot with eggs Florentine
and spinach. We read the local property newspaper and discover that the gorgeous old down
at heel houses on the Loire aren‟t cheap.
Lingerie Masculine
The mist is rising when we leave Blois to drive northwards. A kingfisher flashes past
- the shy European kind, not the cocky New Zealand one we‟re used to. We drive past a
futuristic looking rubbish treatment plant on the outskirts of town more like an office block.
It has something that resembles smoke issuing from the chimney so the process must be
incineration. The farms consist of vast unfenced areas of wheat, and oilseed rape with yellow
flowers. We love the huge lilacs and rough hedgerows made up of several different trees.
We see no road kill, weeds, birds or people, but there‟s a sign warning of wild pigs and deer.
At last we see pheasants, crows and a kestrel, then at Chateaudun we stop at the war
memorial to look down over the river flats where there are trees, gardens and houses, with
oilseed rape yellow in the distance. To the left is a little castle with blossom trees. It‟s a
glorious day and we hear great tits and woodpeckers. We‟re overtaken by two campers with
GB on the back, one a left hand drive. They don‟t even wave! We drive past a maize storage
system a hundred and fifty feet long, like a large art installation. It‟s made of wire mesh,
eight feet high and one foot deep, full of maize cobs. It has hay spread along the top. Way
out in the middle of this vast agricultural plain there‟s a council van and three men in
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fluorescent gear picking up rubbish from the ditch. We haven‟t actually seen any rubbish
since we‟ve been in France.
We find the municipal camping ground in Chartres, beautifully laid out with lots of
trees and birds. The only negative thing is the sour woman in the office whose attitude never
gets any better, even when I ask about her precious dog. Several other Brit vehicles are there,
campers and caravans, with the obligatory bicycles strapped on the back. We‟re amazed to
see a massive motorhome with a Minnesota number plate. An English man and his French
wife who are camping in a tiny tent tell us that the French fishermen have blockaded Calais
and Dunkirk in a dispute about their quotas being cut by the EU. You can always rely on the
French workers. An article in an English paper tells of industrial action at Caterpillar in
Grenoble where the workers took the bosses hostage. Apparently a majority of French
workers believe that it‟s OK to take the boss hostage in an industrial dispute. We do the
washing including our woolly jumpers and mon Dieu they‟re in a bad way. John does a trial
pack of the carpets and kilims in preparation for shipping them from England to New
Zealand, and he‟s delighted to discover that they pack very easily within the shipping
company‟s specifications.
The next day we drive into Chartres which is truly picturesque with the River Eure,
timber framed houses and shops, and little gardens everywhere. The most eye-catching
flowerbeds contain tulips, white and pink forget-me-nots, asters, pansies, daisies, white
daffodils and polyanthus. The colourful heads of tulips above a sea of forget-me-nots always
make us smile. A wonderful line of swamp cypresses runs down a street beside the river.
The French really know how to use plants.
The fabulous market includes dressed geese, oysters, globe artichokes, asparagus,
flowers, smelly cheeses and all kinds of fish. We manage to find the Herald Tribune in one
of the newsagents but in one shop when I ask if they have any papers in English, the people
behind the counter all laugh. I take John‟s photo outside a shop called “Lingerie Masculine”.
Somehow the words don‟t have quite the same ring to them in English as they do in French. I
buy a black cardigan, and a tiny old woman milking a cow made out of lead.
We spend a long time in the Cathedral which the guidebook describes as the greatest
Gothic cathedral in Europe, rebuilt after a fire in the early 13th century and with few
alterations since. On the outside it‟s rugged with the roughened surface of the stone showing
its age. Various porches and portals hold beautiful statues including some very elongated
figures. The design was innovative at the time with flying buttresses letting in more light.
Inside it seems very dark at first, with no paintings or tombs, just a vast carved choir screen,
and 13th century stained glass windows covering large areas. The windows are extremely
detailed and in tiny segments, with two huge rose windows. A large Virgin Mary in blue
glass dates from the previous 12th century Romanesque cathedral which was almost
completely destroyed by fire. The windows were removed to safety during the two world
wars. In the centre of the stone floor there‟s a circular labyrinth which the pilgrims followed
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on their knees, a length of eight hundred and fifty feet. It‟s a very beautiful and atmospheric
place, made even better by an organist giving a recital - a centuries old “wall of sound”.
Next we visit the International Centre of Stained Glass in the old tithe barn of the
Cathedral, and a cellar dating from 1200. There‟s an exhibition of the work of contemporary
women stained glass artists from all over the world. From the back of the Cathedral there are
wonderful views over the surrounding town, trees and gardens. Lots of smartly dressed
locals are out and about, plus French tourists.
Walking back to the van via paths along the banks of the Eure we see one of the old
wash houses right on the water‟s edge and try to visualise the washer women scrubbing
clothes there over the centuries. Back at the camp absolutely exhausted our dinner consists of
the second sitting of a stew made with chicken legs, celery, onions, potatoes and smoked
ham. The entertainment is provided by two sets of French people setting up camp. One poor
guy backs a caravan hard up into a tree while his hard faced sister in law runs around giving
directions. Our favourites are a tiny caravan with a tiny car and a tiny couple to match. Back
in the BBC‟s magnetic field we listen to the first half of Chelsea versus Arsenal in the FA
Cup semi final.
About now it dawns on John that we‟ve driven close to Villandry Castle and Garden
but somehow not realised. He‟s read a lot about Villandry and always wanted to go there, so
we make the easy decision to retrace our steps to Blois in preparation for a visit to the castle
the next day.
We take a different road south this time and we can see why this area is called wheat
country. Vast expanses of wheat a foot high and fully grown oilseed rape dominate the
landscape. There are no fences, and lots of chaffinches, crows and starlings. Light rain is
falling and the irrigation is turned on. It‟s fascinating when we get back onto the road we
took north, seeing everything in reverse, and this time we manage to take a photo of the big
maize storage rick. There are pheasants and kestrels and a field of grass which has gone to
seed, a rare sight.
At Chateaudun we turn onto the Vendome road and pass large piles of manure like
giant mole hills. We cross the Loir (without an “e”) a beautiful slow river, and pass through
patches of forest, one with slopes of bluebells. In the rain everything is grey and misty, with
bright yellow and green expanses of crop bursting through. A big hare sits on a ploughed
field, then a flock of starlings. People are out running and cycling.
Back in Blois the wisteria is still dripping mauve, and huge Judas trees are covered in
purple flowers. Next day we drive down the Loire and see white geese on an island and
beautiful houses and gardens on the river terrace. As always in France there are so many
places for a pique nique. We stop for terrine Solognoise on bread with coffee. At the turn off
to Chaumont Castle on the other side of the river, the roundabout is planted with grape vines.
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It‟s Terraine Meslande, Vin d‟Aoc. There‟s also a sculpture in braised stainless steel of three
figures pruning and harvesting grapes. We see the castle on the river terrace on the other
side, all little turrets, in cream stone with a dark grey roof. On the river level there‟s a street
of three storied old houses, a beautiful sight. We see creamy cows, sheep, and old stone
barns with steep roofs. A crow and a bird of prey are having a mid air fight.
On the outskirts of Amboise is a large Gypsy camp of white vans, big caravans, and
washing lines. Amboise castle, where Leonardo da Vinci is buried, is small and compact.
Further on there‟s a beautiful wooded island in the river. A white swan is swimming, men
are fishing, and a huge apple orchard is covered in blossom. At Vouvray as we drive across
the Cisse River we notice that the bridge railings are decorated with pots of pansies. We
follow a cliff face of yellow tufa rock which has wine cellars tunnelled into it from the 10 th
century. In the foreground there‟s mauve wisteria and purple Judas trees, then grey and white
three storey houses, and behind that yellow cliffs.
The various villages and towns have a star rating for floweriness: Ville Fleurie. The
best wisteria flowers have a drop of fifteen inches - unbelievable. All the way from Blois to
Tours flowers have lined the river‟s edge. The houses are all stone, old and picturesque,
some very narrow and tall. At St Etienne some of the houses are built within the cliff with
the front door at the cliff edge, and some are even layered up the hillside. At Langeais we
cross the Loire and we‟re deep in apple orchards bursting with blossom, white lilac, and
purple irises. It‟s such a fantastic time of year to visit this area. We arrive at Villandry, the
last of the Loire Valley castles to be built, and spend the night in a peaceful, dark car park,
under some trees, with a couple of other campers.
The Trogs
John is absolutely beside himself when we visit Villandry castle and garden next day,
as it‟s the fulfilment of a dream for him. The keep is from the medieval castle which was
demolished, with the new castle being built in1536. The gardens and castle have had various
incarnations over the centuries as different owners made changes according to the fashion of
the day. In 1906 it was bought by the great grandparents of the current owner, a scientist and
an American heiress with a vast fortune. They set about restoring the castle to its original
style and completely changed the gardens, which had previously been transformed into a park
with trees dotted around in the style made popular by Capability Brown in the 18th century.
The grounds were returned to how they would have been in the 16th century, with a series of
ornamental gardens enclosed in box hedges, and vegetable beds enclosed in box as well in the
style of monastery gardens of the same era. None of the other castles in this area have these
intricate gardens any more.
The castle is small and intimate with amazing views over the gardens, particularly
from the keep which also gives a view of the Loire and Cher valleys. The ornamental
gardens are designed to be viewed from above. Two of the bedrooms look straight down on
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them, and the curved and scalloped green segments of box look like pieces in a puzzle,
enclosing brilliant oddly shaped clusters of red, yellow, pink and white flowers. We‟re also
thrilled to see some old Persian style carpets on the floors, very worn and threadbare, so
much rougher than most of the second hand ones we‟ve bought. There‟s a moat around part
of the castle full of large carp which make the hordes of school children very excited.
The whole complex backs onto a hill where a couple of belvederes give a different
view of the ornamental gardens. The first four represent an allegory of love with heart
shapes, fans, horns, and the shapes of masks worn at balls. Inside these outlines created from
box there are tulips and forget-me-nots in colour combinations of yellow with blue, pink with
pink, red with blue, and white with blue. They are all in absolutely perfect condition.
Between the church and the vegetable garden a long herb garden is laid out in the
medieval tradition with low box hedges and tulips along the edges. There‟s also a wonderful
maze of yew and box, and a newly developed sun garden with yellow flowers and young
maples.
The kitchen garden, in monastery style, is enclosed in nine squares of very low box
which the gardeners are in the process of cutting with electric hedge clippers and a line of
string. Each square has different geometric shapes made of box and in the very centre a large
pot of pansies. In spring and summer forty different varieties of vegetables are planted out
inside the squares, rectangles and other shapes. Right now they have small lettuces, red and
green cabbages, carrots, broad beans and rhubarb. Water is supplied by an underground
irrigation system, and standard roses, pansies and tulips are planted as borders and
decoration. It‟s all absolutely perfect, symmetrical and ordered.
The statistics for the whole garden are inspiring. There are thirty two miles of box
hedge, plus one thousand, two hundred and sixty lime trees lining the paths, pruned by four
men over four months. A quarter of a million flower and vegetable plants are raised on the
premises, and all the gardens are weeded by hand.
After Villandry we take the motorway back through Tours then drive north through
Chateau-Renault along an avenue of planes. It‟s a fine, hazy day, and lots of French campers
and caravans have taken to the road. At Vendome we go west past large plantations of
different kinds of poplars, evenly spaced, a beautiful sight. We arrive at the village of les
Roches-l‟Eveque which has the words “Habitations troglodytiques” next to it in the road
atlas. I look up “troglodyte” in the dictionary and it means “cave-dweller”. We‟ve been
following the lazy Loir again with white cows knee deep in grass. It‟s the most glorious lush
spring landscape and we make a perfectly idle mental note that this would be the place in
France to buy a house.
At les Roches-l‟Eveque some houses are backed up into the cliff, others are in the
cliff, and above them trees and wild lilac grow. Today a peregrine flies above it all. A tiny
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camping ground on the river bank offers “calm, rest and relaxation”. The crows and
swallows are busy. We take a back road to Lavardin on a bend in the river, and it‟s a glorious
jumble of hedgerows, trees, gardens and beautiful old houses, plus a ruined castle, and an
11th century church with murals in reds, browns and yellows.
We reach Troo then follow a sign “Troglodyte Cite” down a side road where there are
irises, a peony six feet high covered in pink flowers, stone ruins, and a cemetery with a
peregrine. There‟s a church beside a tiny hill which we walk up to see the view. A family
shows us where to find the troglodyte houses, along a path saturated with the perfume of wild
lilac, with huge old wisteria, and clematis. On the lower side of the path the odd chimney
pokes up through the lilac from the cave dwellings below. On the uphill side of the path
there are front fences and gates, and behind them small gardens with tables and chairs, plants
in pots, hammocks, barbecues, trees and flowers. Where the front yards end there are stone
frontages, doors, windows, and French doors straight into the cliff, and that is the house.
They all have at least one chimney coming out of the wild lilac on the cliff above. All are
different and some have a small sloping roof or a lean to jutting out. BBC‟s Radio 4
murmurs discreetly from one front garden.
We set off again and at Souge sur Braye marvel at the old farmyards right in the
village, a very endearing feature of farming in Europe. We pass two more massive peonies
then stop at Pont de Brayes picnic area where we hear a cuckoo calling over and over. We
pass two more castles, wineries, and flat country with fences and old stone barns, before
turning to the north at Chartre sur le Loir. After passing a Gypsy camp on the outskirts of Le
Mans we get lost and confused on the bypass and end up in the Super U supermarket car park
for the night. Dinner is new potatoes from a jar, fried mushrooms and onions, a pork chop,
applesauce, and beetroot. We‟re relieved when the security guard gives John the thumbs up
as he leaves at eight.
Next day we decide to take the motorway north and it‟s a smooth trip through rolling
countryside of ploughed fields, tall crops and forest. Nature is less constrained here with old
hedgerows, single trees in fields, beautiful horses knee deep in grass, and broom and gorse
growing wild. After one and a half hours of smooth driving our trance like state is harshly
interrupted by a motorway toll booth. The charge is seventeen Euros. We‟re in the credit
card lane where you insert your card, it‟s ejected immediately, and you drive off.
At Argentan a roundabout has a dozen crab apple trees in full flower enclosed in a
white post and rail fence. We go past Falaise where William the Conqueror was born. It‟s
completely flat from there to Caen with crops and lots of big cherries with pink blossom. We
arrive at Bayeux in search of the aire that the Lancashire taxi driver in Greece told us about, a
parking area hospitable to campers. We visit the tourist office to get a map, and come away
with lots of information in English. Clearly the Normandy beaches are a huge attraction for
English speaking tourists, not to mention the Bayeux Tapestry. We find the aire and it‟s a
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huge car park with water and toilets. We find a nice spot on the edge and as usual all the
other campers get in a huddle like they‟re circling the wagons.
Apple Blossom Time
Unlike its much larger neighbour Caen, which was levelled by the Allies, Bayeux
wasn‟t bombed in WW2. It was the first French town to be liberated from the Nazis in 1944,
and later we see a newsreel of Charles de Gaulle walking in to cheering crowds then making
a speech. It‟s packed with gorgeous buildings from as far back as the 15th century, huge
trees, a canal, and a cathedral.
Normandy is physically close to England, close historically because the Norman
soldiers who invaded England in 1066 came from this area, and also because the big event in
living memory is the D-Day Landings in June 1944, when British, American and Canadian
troops landed on the beaches. I‟m struck by some of the similarities between French and
English when we see a sign at the hospital for the “Reanimation” department (does Dr
Frankenstein work there?), then in a dress shop I notice a “Grandiose” (size 18+) section.
We enjoy hanging out for a couple of days in Bayeux. We do wifi (pronounced
“weefee”) in two different cafes, explore the streets and shops, and I buy chipolatas from a
butcher and cook them in white wine and applesauce with onion and garlic, then serve them
with instant mash and Loire Valley peas.
Magnificent Notre Dame Cathedral dates from 1077, but to be honest we are now
cathedralled out. The Bayeux Tapestry was commissioned for the Cathedral by Bishop Odo,
William the Conqueror‟s brother, for the edification of the congregation, most of whom were
illiterate, and that is what we‟re really here to see. In French, William the Conqueror is
called Guillaume-le-Conquerant, another great example of the closeness of the two
languages. That‟s how it seems to me anyway, back happily speaking French after months
drowning in unfamiliar Eastern European languages.
The Tapestry Museum is well set up for the crowds of people from many different
countries. We‟re each given a headset in our own language which provides a lively
commentary while we slowly shuffle past the tapestry. One of the more memorable
observations is that the horses are smiling as they travel in the small open boats from
Normandy to France. It‟s actually an embroidery, not a tapestry, worked in woollen thread in
ten colours using four different stitches, on a linen background. It‟s roughly eighteen inches
high and two hundred and thirty feet long, a witty comic strip complete with a commentary in
Latin. Of course it gives the Norman slant on the invasion of England, not the Saxon
viewpoint. The main message is that the oath Harold swore on reliquaries while in
Normandy, to be loyal to William in his claim to the English throne, should not have been
broken. The intent was to make the faithful church goers of the time reflect on the concept of
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loyalty. But of course another interpretation is that Harold was a statesman who perjured
himself for his country.
The tapestry tells the story of the Norman conquest, starting in 1064 with King
Edward sending Harold to Normandy to inform William that he is to succeed to the English
throne. Upper and lower bands provide background information with scenes from the rural
life of the time, illustrations from “Aesop‟s Fables”, and images of creatures such as dragons,
griffins and lions. Horses feature in three quarters of the story, and there‟s a real sense of
their walking, trotting and galloping. My favourite parts show the men from both sides
getting in and out of their Viking style boats and wading in the water with bare legs, the
transparency of the water depicted with six single threads spaced out across their legs. The
way the water is drawn reminds me of the mosaic of the baptism of Christ that we saw at
Hosios Loukas monastery in Greece.
After that we visit the British War Cemetery which has the characteristic symmetry
and beauty of Commonwealth War Graves Commission cemeteries, with tulips, polyanthus,
star magnolias, big chestnuts and lots of flowers. A huge memorial to the unidentified dead
has an inscription in Latin which translates as “We who were conquered by William have
liberated the homeland of the conqueror”.
Then at the Memorial Museum of the Battle of Normandy the vast scale of the
Normandy landings hits us. It‟s all tanks, guns, uniforms, photos, small items owned by
soldiers, and newsreels. There‟s a photo of Field Marshal Montgomery with his two little
dogs, named Hitler and Rommel. On our way back to the van we visit the Place de la
Liberation where there‟s a plane tree which was planted in 1797 after the Revolution. We‟re
exhausted.
Next morning we visit the outdoor market and we‟re amazed to see handmade carpets
from Kashmir, Pakistan and Turkey, supposedly reduced by seventy per cent, but with the
cheapest priced at sixteen hundred Euros. There are the usual oysters and cheeses and lots of
live rabbits, ducklings, hens and chickens. Lengths of lilac in boxes are very cheap, and there
are untold flower and vegetable plants, including bare rooted beetroot. As usual the smallest
stalls belong to old women sitting with a basket of eggs, a couple of dressed hens, parsley,
thyme, and vegetables from their gardens. I sometimes wonder if that will be me in my
seventies. We buy some vegetables, then go to an internet cafe and make our booking with
Freedom Shipping to send our boxes of Turkish carpets and other treasures back to New
Zealand from Surrey in twelve days time. It‟s all coming to an end very quickly now.
We drive to Arromanches Beach where the remains of one of the artificial harbours
towed from England for the D-Day Landings can still be seen sticking out of the water.
There are many plaques placed by various groups, and so many tourists in campers, our age
and mainly French. We need diesel so we head back into Bayeux as it‟s Sunday and petrol
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stations are scarce with not many open. In fact virtually nothing is open on a Sunday apart
from bakeries in the morning.
Following the coast to Courseulles-sur-Mer we try to imagine the devastation that
followed the Allied invasion of this area, when so much was destroyed. Nowadays it‟s a
peaceful rural scene of hedgerows, horses, cows, crop, apple orchards, and stone farm houses
and buildings. Old military jeeps are for sale, and lots of other military memorabilia. Beach
huts run along the coast with resorts, yacht clubs and casinos, the typical European beach
experience. Most towns have a military tank on display. At Bavent we stop for a cup of tea
and John follows the sound of loud croaking to discover two big frogs in a pond. We pass a
thoroughbred stud farm where there are foals, an avenue of huge copper beeches, and lovely
old stone buildings.
After that it‟s all wide banks bordering the road with trees along the top, hedgerows
with laburnum, white cows in deep pasture, little thatched cottages Tudor style with bulbs
growing out of the roof line, and white broom in flower. It‟s like Surrey, then the Cotswolds
as we pass through dinky little villages with old houses and shops in brick and stone. It‟s
overgrown with lush weeds on the verges and in the fields, hedgerows in flower, old blossom
covered apple trees, and big patches of forest. It‟s so different from the immaculate but
sterile factory farms we‟ve driven through. We drive down a tunnel of green leaves as the
trees meet over the road, then see irises along the ridge of a long thatch roofed house, and
bluebells on the grass verge. An avenue of tall chestnuts with trimmed sides runs down the
hill into Honfleur, with a fuzzy layer of white wild flowers and yellow dandelions
underneath.
A very picturesque old port town, Honfleur was popular with 19th century painters. In
the historic port area, distinctive narrow 17th century houses six or seven stories tall painted
charcoal, brown and grey cluster together. We find a gargantuan car park for campers where
there must be a couple of hundred all lined up, mainly French but also German, Dutch,
Belgian and British. We can‟t get out of there fast enough, and find a car park where
campers aren‟t allowed right beside the port. We have a peaceful night there, beside the
circus which is camping nearby, complete with a few moth eaten camels and ungroomed
horses tethered outside happily eating the long grass.
There‟s a garden show on at the botanic gardens, a wonderful spectacle of
hydrangeas, rhododendrons and clematis. In the distance we can see the massive suspension
bridge which was completed in 1995, taking traffic over the estuary of the Seine to Le Havre.
After another busy day we‟re exhausted and climb into the back of van where I make
Normandy Salad: first sauté mushrooms, garlic, onion and cooked potatoes, and season with
dried thyme and black pepper. Then cut up a leek and steam with small pieces of broccoli.
Add to the other vegetables with some small pieces of roast chicken, chopped parsley, a
couple of spoonfuls of mayonnaise, and freshly ground black pepper. After dinner John gets
the BBC on the radio and there‟s an item about ANZAC Day in Australia.
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From Honfleur we go south and inland towards Lisieux. It‟s rolling country with
foals, Tudor barns, cherry orchards and castles. I begin to realise that in my obsessive emails
home I‟m falling back on repeated phrases: “turquoise sea”, “beautiful deciduous forest”, “an
avenue of planes”, “apple blossom”, “white cows”. Homer has “the wine dark sea”, “with
steadfast spirit”, and “mighty destiny”. This trip has turned into an odyssey.
At Lisieux we see posters advertising a big antique and collectables fair with sellers
from all over France and the UK, but we decide not to go as it‟s too stimulating and we‟re
desperately trying to wind down. Antique and junk shops are everywhere including one
advertising English junk. As we go east the countryside flattens out, the road is straight, and
there‟s no traffic. The windscreen is always covered in flattened bugs these days but
fortunately we have fancy green windscreen washer to clean it. The temperature has risen to
twenty two degrees. At Evreux a flower bed of white stocks, blue forget-me-nots and yellow
daisies divides the road in two, then in Pacy sur Eure a roundabout is covered with pansies,
tulips and white forget-me-nots, and raised flower beds are enclosed in woven hazel. Earlier
today we‟ve seen a roundabout planted with deciduous azaleas, heather, daffodils,
rhododendrons and small pines. The floweriness of France is wondrous to us and we haven‟t
even got to Monet‟s Garden yet.
Blue Birds Over
We decide to stop at Vernon on the banks of the Seine. It‟s Sunday, and Monet‟s
Garden is closed on Mondays, so we‟ll have a day off. We drive in past a well organised
Gypsy camp across the river, almost turning in there by mistake, then find a peaceful, free,
tree lined car park right on the river. It feels very relaxing to know we‟ll be there for two
nights. It‟s been a big day and John relaxes across the front seats with a beer, the Times and
the BBC, while I‟m in the back with the laptop and a big bottle of two per cent local cider.
We read in the papers about the persecution of Gypsies in Hungary, where former
soldiers and police are suspected of murdering people and setting their houses on fire. We
also hear the latest on swine flu on the BBC and wonder if it has any implications for us. Our
ferry sails to Dover on Friday, then on Wednesday we pack most of our belongings ready to
be shipped back to New Zealand. After that we‟ll have a month to visit friends and explore
some new places in England, before flying to Sydney and home to Dunedin. We‟re starting
to feel a glow of satisfaction to have got this far all in one piece but it‟s also sad that our epic
journey will be finished in less than a week. We notice that we‟re very brown because we
live outside most of the time. It can‟t all be dirt from the lack of washing!
Big barges laden with containers glide by on the Seine. It pours with rain all night.
Next day I have some French colour put in my hair in preparation for our return to
civilisation.
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We drive across the river to Giverny where Monet lived for the second half of his life.
From the bridge to the village the road is edged with trees and yellow and purple irises which
certainly get the horticultural adrenalin flowing! French and English tourists are mobbing the
place and we join them.
The long, narrow house backs onto the road, and one of Monet‟s former studios, a
large room, is now a shop selling a vast range of books, art prints and other souvenirs. A
verandah runs the length of the house with two big yew trees right in front of it. Long flower
beds lead away from the house. Each year all the flowers are planted according to colour:
tulips (many in long rows inspired by the tulip farms in the Netherlands), pansies, forget-menots, stocks, irises, lilies, cinerarias, hyacinths and daffodils. There‟s the odd flowering tree,
clematis over arched trellises, peonies, azaleas, rhododendrons and wisteria. The overall
impression is the blazing colour and density of the planting. Heavy rain overnight has
intensified the colours.
Apparently Monet planted what he wanted to paint and created the three acre garden
accordingly. Later he made ponds to create the water garden where there are beautifully
placed weeping willows, azaleas and rhododendrons around the ponds. We follow tradition
and pose on the Japanese bridge under the wisteria. Two men in little boats are skimming
weed out of the pond with nets. The water lilies aren‟t in flower yet. Monet was a fanatical
gardener who didn‟t like to go on holiday in case he missed something coming out in the
garden, an endearing quality that lots of gardeners can relate to. There‟s a frenzied
atmosphere in the garden with everyone frantically taking photos, a wonderful buzz of
enthusiasm and appreciation.
The house is cosy, homely and on a very human scale, with several rooms looking out
onto the garden. We enter the dining room first and I like it the best as it‟s a blaze of yellow walls, chairs, dressers, cupboards and fire surround. The kitchen walls are blue and white
tiles, and there‟s a large black coal range. Apart from a room downstairs filled with Monet
reproductions, all the art in the house is Japanese prints.
We drive north east via les Thilliers en Vexin through beautiful forest, small castles,
crops and ploughed fields, with light rain and a dark sky. As we pull into a supermarket car
park we see that an accident has just happened. Some young people have driven over a small
tree which had its base protected by pieces of concrete. The concrete is broken, the tree bent
over, and the car has lost part of its front. They must have been moving pretty fast to cause
such damage. The young woman who‟s upset and being hugged by the others must be the
driver. For some reason it‟s always more fascinating being a spectator in a foreign country!
Florists here often use props in their displays and a florist in this town has placed a
large old fashioned pram filled with a basket of flowers on the footpath outside their shop.
Tulips rule here, they could be the national flower of France. The houses are large, old, solid,
and many have shutters. There‟s no end to the charm fest out the window, and once we‟re in
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the country again we drive down an avenue of chestnuts with white flowers. It‟s all apple
blossom, horses, picture book sheep and cows, wild flowers, lush grass, forest, hedgerows,
wisteria and lilac for the next hour or so, then we take a wrong turn and travel on a back road
through a fabulous forest, all moss, fallen brown leaves, beech, birch, maple, oak, silver birch
and conifers. The countryside here is more like what it used to be like in New Zealand before
the relentless march of vast factory dairy farms, with barbed wire fences, creeks, implements
outside, and a general rough atmosphere. We come across the first clipped hedges we‟ve
seen in Europe.
We park for the night in Neufchatel a typical peaceful French town with old houses
and lots of trees. We have a look at a memorial erected in 1930 on the centenary of the
conquest of Algeria - a relief sculpture of an Arab woman holding a large storage jar like the
ones we saw in the underwater archaeology museum in Bodrum.
After a night of rain we leave Neufchatel in sunshine and climb a large hill of
deciduous forest to look down onto undulating pasture, trees and houses. At Abbeville we
come to the Somme Canal where we see a Morris Minor, men fishing, and a lock. There‟s
always so much to look at, and now we notice that we‟re back in WW1 Commonwealth War
Graves territory. It flattens out as we head towards Dunkirk, and there‟s the odd old
windmill, then we get onto the motorway and it‟s all lorries and industry.
We park in our old Dunkirk parking spot at Malo-les-Bains, exhausted and hugely
relieved to have made it back safely, and ceremoniously take the mileage: 167,359. It‟s
exactly nine months since we left and we‟ve driven 11,783 miles. After a few calculations
John tells me proudly that all that driving in the slow lane has pushed our diesel consumption
to thirty three miles per gallon.
Hugely contented we just slump in the front seat, have a celebratory drink and watch
the people rollerblading, biking, running, and walking past on the wide sea front path with
their children and dogs. Little yachts are sailing, and later when the tide goes out leaving a
wide expanse of sand, people go fishing and collect shellfish.
We feel very safe and secure at Dunkirk, probably because this is actually the fourth
time we‟ve spent the night on this spot. Our booking to Dover is in two days‟ time, so there‟s
no pressure. After a peaceful night we check in to the camping ground and spend the
afternoon organising the back of the van and reading in the sun. John cooks a green curry for
dinner, and the BBC is coming in loud and clear.
Next day is May Day and nothing is open except the bakeries. We buy slices of
French apple pie from one that‟s been going since 1862. We see a guy with a rolled up
banner, off to a demo, and everywhere people are out selling bunches of lily of the valley and
bluebells. We head to the port which is to the west of the town. After the formalities we get
in the queue with all the Europeans who are taking advantage of their public holiday and
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strong Euro to have a holiday in the UK. They are French, German, Dutch, and Belgian, with
hardly a Brit vehicle in the queue. A Dutch family has a four wheel drive and an empty horse
float and later on the ferry when I ask them where the horse is they tell me that they‟re
heading to Devon to pick up three alpacas. Six young people from the Netherlands or
Belgium are practising a circle dance with fake swords where they cavort around, ending up
in interesting formations and entanglements, accompanied by a guy playing the accordion. A
French family sit on the ground around a cane picnic basket and eat baguettes. It‟s all very
jolly in the sunshine.
The crossing to Dover is calm and we sit inside absolutely engrossed in the Times and
the Guardian which cost the normal price rather than the four or five Euros we‟ve been
spending in Europe. Fog at Dover delays our arrival and we strike up a conversation with a
lovely English couple returning from their twenty eighth and final holiday at a guest house in
Bruges, run by a group of nuns who are now too elderly to continue. We feel a bit rough and
socially phobic to say the least!
In Dover the cherry blossom‟s out, and as usual in the early afternoon, it‟s full of
young men drinking and scary women. We put the van in our old car park and head off down
the high street. It‟s indescribably wonderful to hear people speaking English. Rook and Sons
the butcher (“Quality Kentish meat”) has shoulders of New Zealand lamb in the window. We
do the charity shops in a feverish state. Have we missed any bargains in the last nine
months? The French tourists are in there foraging as well. We can‟t resist buying “The
Lady” magazine for old time‟s sake, and there are lots of jobs advertised. At The Eight Bells,
a Wetherspoons pub, we have pies and mashed potatoes. The pies have been in the oven
about an hour too long but we don‟t mind. We‟re back!
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Epilogue
We spent five happy weeks in England, visiting friends and living in car parks,
exploring new places and revisiting favourite haunts. Then, as planned months earlier, we
handed the van over to our friends Liz and Ian who live on their narrowboat Clarissa. It was
wonderful to be able to leave it fully equipped, and to know that they would use what they
needed, and easily dispose of the rest. We knew the van was going to a good home.
A few weeks later we were back living in our beach house at the entrance to the
Otago Harbour, a very popular route for camper vans visiting the Royal Albatross Colony at
Taiaroa Head. Late one night I looked down towards the road and noticed a vehicle parked
outside with a light burning in the front seat. Next morning, leaving home early in the dark
of midwinter, we discovered that a rental camper van had parked outside overnight, with the
telltale sign of condensation on the windows. We immediately felt a warm rush of emotion, a
combination of protectiveness and camaraderie. John found a pen and a piece of paper, wrote
a note, and tucked it under their windscreen wiper: “Welcome to New Zealand”.
Six months later we heard from Liz and Ian that the van was starting to need a few
repairs and they‟d managed to sell it on ebay for 300 pounds. We were impressed. We‟d
bought it in Gateshead four years earlier, off a chap who‟d used it to carry house demolition
rubbish to the tip when he renovated his house, for 900 pounds.
214
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Thanks
Special thanks to
John for being the perfect accomplice
Dan Clark for internet services
Andrew Sullivan for help with Word
Amber Moffat for the cover design
Francis Kumar for the suggestion to publish electronically
Everyone on the big email list for their interest
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